Chapter 8: Moving forward and Gun practice

[David's POV]

I woke up feeling a little stiff. I sat up and ran a hand through my hair, exhaling. Today was going to be a long day.

I didn't bother checking the system or wasting time with unnecessary thoughts. Brushing my teeth and splashing cold water on my face, I threw on a fresh hoodie and jeans.

No breakfast. No distractions. I had to move the rest of my things from my old apartment.

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By the time I arrived at my old apartment, it was around 7am.

I looked around my apartment once I entered. My eyes stopped at view of the living room sofa.

I could see the silhouette of my mother sleeping, after she would come back from her work shift. My mother.

It was odd feeling, I felt happy for some reason and also sad that she wasn't there anymore to be in my life. I stopped thinking and walked to my bedroom.

I moved through the space, taking only what I needed real fast. I didn't want to linger in this house anymore. This feeling was suffocating.

A suitcase for essentials. Two bags filled with clothes and supplies. The last thing I packed was the only photo, my graduation picture with my mother.

I stared at it for a moment before sliding it into my suitcase, zipping it shut.

There was no point in lingering.

I grabbed the keys, took a last look around, and left.

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As I stepped out into the hallway, I rang Mrs. Gonzzale doorbell. She opened the door and saw me with my bags packed and left outside.

She was in her late 60s, always wearing a patterned housecoat and carrying that same old suspicion in her sharp eyes.

"You're leaving?" she asked, squinting at my bags.

I gave a neutral nod. "Yeah. Moving out of this place. Couldn't afford paying the rent anymore with the job I have."

I continued not giving her a chance to speak. "Mr. Thompson asked me to give the apartment keys to you and said he would collect it in a day or two.

She said, "Ok, I will return it to the old man."

I handed her the keys. "Thanks, Mrs. G."

She took them, still watching me as I turned and walked away. I could feel her gaze on my back.

Mrs. Gonzalez had a way of sniffing out secrets, and I wasn't about to give her anything to work with. 

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I hailed a taxi, but I wasn't stupid enough to go directly to my new place.

Instead, I got off several blocks away, near a familiar alleyway.

A quick scan of my surroundings—no suspicious figures, no vehicles that seemed out of place. Still, I didn't take chances.

I stepped into the alley, moving swiftly toward the far end where a wire fence blocked the exit.

Pulling my hoodie over my head, I focused on the building beside it. A fire escape hung just above my reach.

Alright, let's see if this Parkour Mastery actually works. I took a deep breath and ran forward.

My foot hit the fence first. Using the momentum, I pushed off, grabbing the bottom rung of the fire escape. My arms tensed as I swung my leg up, hooking it onto the railing.

I pulled myself up and scrambled onto the platform. I blinked.

That… was way smoother than I expected.

I moved fast, climbing to the rooftop. My muscles protested with a slight strain—not unbearable, but noticeable. My body wasn't conditioned for this yet.

Still, my movements felt natural, as if I'd been doing this for years.

Damn.

I grinned slightly despite myself.

But I didn't have time to admire my newfound skill.

I jumped across to the next building, landing with a controlled roll. My body absorbed the impact, but the stiffness in my legs reminded me that I wasn't in top form.

I need to train more.

One more jump. Another roll. I reached the final building's fire escape and climbed down. By the time I hit the street, I was just another guy in a hoodie walking away.

Paranoia or not… I'd rather be safe than sorry. I walked a few blocks before finally catching another taxi to my new apartment.

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[Few hours later]

I knew I couldn't just walk into any shooting range and expect to start firing without paperwork. The place I found last night was a legal range, meaning I had to play by their rules—at least on paper.

I took the subway to get there, keeping my hoodie up and my head down. It was early, not quite rush hour, so the train wasn't packed. I sat in the middle of the car, scanning the faces around me out of habit. No one paid me any attention.

A short walk from the station brought me to the Shooting Range, a well-maintained facility. That was exactly why I chose it. If I wanted real training, I needed professionals.

"Walk-in or membership?" she asked.

"Walk-in. Basic firearms training," I replied.

"First time here?"

I nodded.

She slid a clipboard across the counter. "You'll need to fill this out. Name, address, contact info, and sign the waiver. Training requires a valid ID."

I kept my expression neutral as I pulled out my ID from my wallet.

David Arthur Brown.

It still felt strange sometimes, knowing that the original me—the old David—was gone. That this was my life now.

I filled out the form quickly, handed it back, and waited as she scanned my ID into their system. After a few seconds, she nodded.

"You're all set. The instructor will be with you in a few minutes. Range 3."

I nodded back, took the safety goggles and earmuffs she handed me, and walked toward the training area.

I stepped into Range 3, where a middle-aged instructor was already waiting. He was a stocky man with a buzz cut, wearing a black range uniform with the name Rick embroidered on the chest. His sharp eyes scanned me as I approached.

"First time handling a firearm?" he asked, arms crossed.

"Yeah," I admitted.

He gave a small nod, not surprised. "Good. That means no bad habits to unlearn."

I wasn't sure if that was a compliment or an insult.

Rick motioned for me to step up to the shooting stall, where a Glock 17 rested on the counter along with a box of 9mm rounds.

"Before we start shooting, let's go over gun safety," Rick said, picking up the Glock with a professional ease.

His voice was calm but firm.

"Rule number one: Treat every firearm as if it's loaded—even if you know it isn't. You never point it at anything you don't want to destroy."

I nodded, taking that in.

"Rule number two: Finger off the trigger until you're ready to shoot." He demonstrated, keeping his index finger straight alongside the frame rather than resting it on the trigger.

"This is called trigger discipline. You only put your finger inside the trigger guard when you're about to fire. Otherwise, keep it out."

He placed the gun back down and gestured for me to pick it up.

"Your turn. Pick it up the way I showed you."

I reached for the Glock, making sure to keep my index finger off the trigger as I lifted it. The weight surprised me—it was heavier than I expected.

Rick nodded approvingly. "Good. Now, always be aware of where you're pointing the muzzle—that's rule three. Never wave it around carelessly."

I adjusted my hold slightly, ensuring the barrel remained pointed downrange.

"Last rule—know your target and what's beyond it. Bullets don't stop just because you hit your mark. If you're shooting in the real world, you better be damn sure what's behind your target."

I listened carefully. These weren't just rules for the range—they were survival rules.

"Got all that?" Rick asked.

I nodded. "Yeah. Treat it like it's always loaded, keep my finger off the trigger, control where the barrel points, and know what's beyond my target."

"Good. Now let's get to handling the gun properly."

Rick picked up the gun again.

"This here is your slide lock. See this lever on the side?" He tapped the small latch near the rear of the gun's frame.

I leaned in slightly, observing.

"When the magazine is empty, the slide locks back automatically. That tells you you're out of rounds."

He pulled the slide back manually and let it lock in place.

"Now, when you reload, you have two ways to release the slide. First, you can press the slide release lever, like this." He used his thumb to push down the slide lock, and the slide snapped forward into its normal position.

"Second, and what most pros do, is rack the slide manually." He demonstrated by pulling the slide back slightly and letting go.

"Why do it that way?" I asked.

"Better reliability. The slide release is small, and in a high-stress situation, you might miss it. Pulling the slide back gives you more control."

"Now, your turn. Lock the slide back." while he kept the gun down.

I took the Glock and mimicked his motion, pulling the slide back. I managed to get it locked in place.

"Good," Rick said. "Now release it."

I pressed the slide release lever, and the slide shot forward with a satisfying snap.

"Not bad," he muttered. "You'll get smoother with practice."

I placed the gun back down, feeling a little more familiar with it.

"Alright, let's get to shooting," Rick said.

He showed me how to properly grip the Glock.

"Hands-on time," he said, setting it back down. "Pick it up again."

I reached for the gun, my fingers wrapping around the grip.

"Your grip's weak. If you hold it like that, the recoils' gonna kick harder than it should. Tighten up. Thumbs forward."

I adjusted my hold.

"Better. Now, square your stance. Feet shoulder-width apart, slight bend in your knees. Lean forward just a bit—this ain't a movie, you don't wanna get knocked back by the recoil."

I followed his instructions, keeping my focus.

"Alright. Slide's already racked. Line up your sights, slow press on the trigger."

I exhaled slowly and squeezed.

Bang!

The shot went wide, completely missing the center target.

Rick huffed. "Yeah, that's about right for a first shot."

I frowned. "Felt like the gun jerked up the moment I pulled the trigger."

"Because you pulled it. You need to press the trigger smoothly. If you jerk it, your shot's gonna veer off. Try again."

I adjusted my grip, took a breath, and fired again.

Bang!

This time, the bullet hit the edge of the target.

Rick grunted. "You're getting the feel for it, but don't expect miracles. Shooting's a skill, and skill takes time. Keep at it."

I kept practicing.

Twenty rounds later, my shots were still inconsistent. Some landed closer to the center, but many were scattered. My hands felt a little stiff, my arms slightly sore from maintaining the stance.

Rick didn't offer praise, but he did say, "Not bad for a first session."

I wasn't sure if that was supposed to be encouraging, but I'd take it.

"Come back when you can, and we'll move up from here," he said, taking back the Glock.

I nodded. "Yeah. I'll be back."

I returned my protective gear and left the range.

Slipping my hoodie back on, I adjusted the fit and started walking toward the station. If I caught the train on time, I'd still have enough time to make it to the diner.

When I reached the platform, the train hadn't arrived yet.

I plugged in my earphones and played some music, letting the familiar tunes fill the silence.

As I listened, my mind drifted to the day's events—moving into a new apartment, learning to handle a gun.

I had made some progress, no matter how small, was still progress.

But it was clear I still had a long way to go.

To Be Continued...

[STATUS]

Name: David Arthur Brown

Age: 23

Race: Human

Strength: 9

Agility: 10

Intelligence: 12

SP: 0

Skills : Hand-to-Hand Combat (Master), Parkour Mastery, Hacking Mastery (Expert)

Inventory: Glock 17 (5 Mags, Leg Holster), $800 Cash, Knuckle Dusters (Hidden Knives)- 2nos, 1 Random Lottery Card]