# CHAPTER 6: Day Two

Sakura woke up at 5:30 AM unable to move.

Everything hurt. Her shoulders, her legs, her abs—muscles she didn't even know she had were staging a full-scale rebellion. She rolled out of bed and nearly collapsed.

Jenny had texted her seventeen times yesterday. Sakura had responded with "I'm fine, training with a friend, will explain later" which had only generated more questions.

She stumbled to the shower, letting hot water work on her protesting muscles. By the time she'd dressed in workout clothes and chugged two cups of coffee, she felt almost human.

Almost.

The warehouse looked different in the early morning light streaming through the high windows. Less ominous, more utilitarian. Tamotsu was already there—did the man ever sleep?—but today he wasn't working out. He was sitting on a crate, reading what looked like a file.

"You're early," he said without looking up.

"It's 5:58."

"Early is early." He closed the file. "How do you feel?"

"Like I got hit by a truck."

"Good. That means you worked hard yesterday." He stood. "Today will be worse."

"That's not encouraging."

"It's honest." He moved to the training mats. "We're focusing on situational awareness and tactical thinking today. Being able to fight is useless if you don't see the threat coming."

He spent the next hour putting her through scenarios—walking through mock environments he'd set up with crates and barriers, teaching her to identify potential threats, escape routes, choke points, cover versus concealment.

"What's the difference?" Sakura asked.

"Cover stops bullets. Concealment just hides you." He pointed to a wooden crate. "That's concealment. It blocks line of sight but a bullet goes right through." He moved to a stack of concrete blocks. "That's cover. Use it to protect yourself while you assess or return fire."

"I don't have a gun."

"You might need to use one. We'll cover that later."

Later turned out to be after another grueling combat session and a quick lunch break. Tamotsu produced two handguns from a locked case.

"These are training weapons," he explained. "Modified to fire blanks. But you treat them like they're real. Every time. Understood?"

Sakura nodded, suddenly nervous. She'd never held a real gun before.

"First rule: never point a weapon at anything you don't intend to destroy. Second rule: finger stays off the trigger until you're ready to fire. Third rule: always know what's beyond your target." He demonstrated proper grip and stance. "Most people in movies hold guns wrong. You want a firm grip, but not tense. Align your sights. Control your breathing."

He handed her the weapon.

It was heavier than she expected, cold and solid in her hands. The weight of it felt significant, meaningful.

"How does it feel?" Tamotsu asked.

"Scary."

"Good. It should. A weapon isn't a toy. It's a tool for protecting life." He moved behind her, adjusting her stance. His hands were professional, impersonal, but she was acutely aware of his proximity. "Feet shoulder-width apart. Lean slightly forward. Both eyes open."

They drilled basic shooting techniques—stance, grip, sight picture, trigger control. The training weapons made a loud crack when fired, and even though Sakura knew they were blanks, her heart jumped every time.

"You're flinching," Tamotsu observed.

"I know. I'm trying not to."

"Don't try. Just breathe. Slow, steady breaths. Squeeze the trigger, don't pull it."

She tried again. Better.

"Again."

And again. And again.

By the time they finished, her hands were steady and the sound of gunfire had become almost normal. Almost.

"You're a natural," Tamotsu said, surprising her.

"Really?"

"You have good instincts. You don't panic. That's harder to teach than technical skills." He locked the weapons back in their case. "But remember—the goal is never to use a weapon. It's always your last resort."

"What's the first resort?"

"Awareness. Avoidance. De-escalation." He met her eyes. "And if none of those work, overwhelming force before they know what hit them."

They took another break. Sakura's phone buzzed with messages—Jenny again, her dad checking in, her mom asking if she was eating enough. She fired off quick responses, not mentioning where she was or what she was doing.

"Your family worries about you," Tamotsu observed.

"They're military. Worry is their default setting." She stretched her sore shoulders. "What about your family?"

His expression shuttered. "I don't have one."

"Everyone has someone."

"Not everyone." He stood, clearly ending that conversation. "Let's work on team tactics."

The afternoon session focused on coordination—how to move as a unit, communicate without words, cover each other's blind spots. Tamotsu was patient but exacting, making her repeat movements until they were smooth, natural, instinctive.

"In a real situation, you won't have time to think," he explained. "Your body needs to know what to do automatically. That only comes from repetition."

"My dad used to say the same thing."

"Smart man." Tamotsu demonstrated a clearing technique for moving through doorways. "What does he think about you doing this?"

"He doesn't know. I told him I was taking some extra self-defense classes."

"You're lying to your family."

It wasn't a question, and there was no judgment in his voice. Just observation.

"I'm protecting them," Sakura corrected. "The less they know, the safer they are."

Tamotsu was quiet for a moment. "I understand that logic. But if something goes wrong—"

"It won't."

"Sakura—"

"It won't," she repeated, more firmly. "Because you're the best at what you do, and you're training me to be ready. Right?"

He searched her face, looking for doubt or fear. She kept her expression confident even though uncertainty gnawed at her.

"Right," he finally said. But something in his tone suggested he didn't entirely believe it either.

They worked until darkness fell outside the warehouse windows. Sakura's earlier exhaustion had evolved into a kind of transcendent numbness. Her body was beyond pain, operating on muscle memory and determination.

"That's enough," Tamotsu said. "You're getting sloppy."

Sakura wanted to argue but knew he was right. Her last few attempts at the training scenarios had been noticeably slower, clumsier.

"Go home. Rest. Tomorrow is the last training day, and it'll be the hardest."

"Harder than today?"

"Much."

"Great. Something to look forward to."

That almost-smile again. "You're doing well, Sakura. Better than I expected."

"Thanks." She gathered her things, every movement an exercise in willpower. "Can I ask you something?"

"You can ask. I may not answer."

Fair enough. "Why did you agree to let me help? You could have said no. Probably should have said no."

Tamotsu was silent for a long moment, his expression unreadable in the dim warehouse light. When he spoke, his voice was quieter than usual.

"Because I saw something in you at the coffee shop. When those men came in, most people would have frozen or run. You didn't. You acted." He paused. "And because I've been alone for a long time. Maybe... maybe it's time I stopped."

It was the most vulnerable thing she'd heard him say. Sakura felt something shift between them—not quite friendship, but something more than partnership.

"You're not alone," she said softly. "Not anymore."

His eyes met hers, and for just a moment, the walls came down. She saw the person underneath the soldier, the bodyguard, the lone wolf. Someone who'd chosen isolation not because he wanted it, but because he thought it kept others safe.

"Go home, Sakura," he said, but there was warmth in it now.

"See you tomorrow, Tamotsu."

As she walked to her car, her phone buzzed. A text from Tamotsu—when had they exchanged numbers?—with an address and a time.

And below it: "Thank you. For not giving up on me."

Sakura smiled all the way home, despite her aching muscles and the danger waiting two days away.

Some things were worth the risk.