Names, Not Wounds

They moved through the trees like shadows breaking frost.

Dev was ten paces behind, eyes forward, scanning the brush the way she taught him. Breathing through his nose. Knees low. Foot placement precise.

Alex stopped by a stump just wide enough to conceal a crouch. She raised two fingers, then made a sharp slicing gesture downward — halt and cover.

Dev dropped to one knee without hesitation.

They waited in silence.

No birds. No wind. Just the silence that came when two predators knew they weren't alone.

Then Alex stood. Relaxed.

"No threats," she muttered.

She didn't say good job. She never did.

They continued walking.

"You need a name," she said suddenly.

Dev didn't reply.

"Something that doesn't scream 'ten-year-old boy.' Something that works when I need to give an order or call you off a trigger."

He glanced at her sideways, not pausing his step.

"What's wrong with Dev?"

"Too short. Too soft. Too traceable."

"You want me to pick something?"

"You can," she said. "Or I'll assign one."

They kept walking.

He didn't answer.

She didn't repeat herself.

That night, over dried meat and rice, she didn't bring it up again.

Until he missed a shot by two inches.

She reset the target, eyes flat.

"Lock," she said. "Adjust your stance."

Dev blinked once.

Alex didn't look up.

"That's your call sign. Until you earn another."

He didn't argue. Didn't nod.

Just repositioned his feet. Took aim again.

And didn't miss.

That night, Dev sat at the desk in his room, a mechanical pencil in hand, the light from a small gooseneck lamp casting narrow shadows across his fingers.

The notebook in front of him was mostly empty.

Not because he didn't write — he did. He just never left anything in it.

Notes were temporary. Information lived in the mind, not on paper.

But tonight, he wrote one word.

LOCK

All caps. Simple. Centered at the top of the page.

He stared at it for a long time.

It didn't feel like a name. It felt like a shape. A sound designed to close something, not open it.

He flipped the page. Tore it out. Burned it in the old soup can he kept under the bed.

Ash curled against the metal.

Across the hall, a floorboard creaked.

He didn't react.

The next day, during hand signals drills, Alex used it again.

"Lock — hold left line. Shadow the ridge."

He moved without hesitation.

By the third use, she said it like it was always his.

He didn't correct her.

Didn't question it.

But that night, when he cleaned his blade — the one she gave him after he set the snare — he held it longer than usual.

And when he went to bed, he rested it on the pillow beside his head.

Names don't soften you here.

They shape how hard you're allowed to be.

The storage room was behind the kitchen — a square, windowless space with shelves of field rations, sealed crates, old MREs, and a tall gun safe with a keypad lock Dev already knew the code to, though she'd never told him.

He wasn't searching. Just organizing.

She'd told him to rotate the food supplies — check expiration dates, inventory sealed gear.

Third shelf from the bottom, under a folded tarp, he found the burn bag.

Canvas. Scorched at one edge. Drawstring half-melted.

He opened it carefully.

Inside:

A half-shredded envelope stamped with a DHS seal.

Two expired passports. Both fake.

One name stood out: J. Lane

A photograph — slightly singed — of Alex smiling beside a man whose face had been deliberately inked out. Her hair was longer. She wore a coat Dev didn't recognize. But the eyes were the same.

Cold. Alert. Alive.

He stared for a long moment.

Then returned everything exactly as it was. Same fold, same order, same tension in the string.

That night, over silent dinner, he asked without looking up:

"Who's J. Lane?"

Alex's fork stopped mid-air.

She didn't put it down. Didn't look at him.

Just froze.

A long breath passed.

Then she said, "No one. Not anymore."

Her tone wasn't angry.

It was final.

She didn't finish eating.

She left the table, and the room, without another word.

The air was colder the next morning. Not the weather. The house.

Alex didn't knock.

She opened his door at 5:58 AM.

"Gear up. We're running pattern drills."

Dev rose without a word. Dressed fast. Knife on hip. Boots laced tight. Pistol checked.

Outside, the snow hadn't fully iced over, which meant noise. Harder work.

She didn't wait for him to catch up. Just walked.

They hit the trees in under five minutes.

She didn't explain the drill. Just pointed at three landmarks and said, "Loop them in order. One mistake, you do it again blindfolded."

He nodded.

She timed him. Didn't give feedback. Didn't say good job when he landed every mark.

Later, during dry fire practice, she threw a half-full canteen at his chest mid-draw. It knocked his stance off. His aim wavered.

She said, "Enemies don't wait for you to be ready."

He reset. Fired again. This time perfect.

Still no praise.

That afternoon, she ran him through a false entry exercise. Made him clear the cabin room by room as if it were being breached. Moved furniture. Replaced lightbulbs with flickering ones. Added new angles.

It was the most aggressive training session since his arrival.

He never slowed down. Never asked why now?

At dinner, neither of them spoke.

When he stood to wash his plate, she said — without looking up:

"We don't ask about the people we used to be."

Dev paused at the sink.

"I don't have people like that."

She didn't respond.

Just kept eating.

The cabin was dark.

Alex had gone to her room an hour earlier. No lights on. No radio.

Dev sat at the table with his knife.

Not sharpening it. Not cleaning it.

Just holding it.

He reached for the small box of carving tools she let him keep in the bottom drawer. Nothing fancy — just a fine-point pick and a handle knife for soft materials.

He tested the edge.

Then turned the blade over in his hand, positioning the wooden grip under the light.

No hesitation.

He carved five letters—slow, quiet, deliberate.

L O C K

Not deep. Not decorative.

Functional. Clear.

A label, not a signature.

He didn't do it because he liked the name.

He didn't do it because it made him feel anything.

He did it because he needed to remember:

This name wasn't a gift.

It wasn't family.

It was instruction.

Lock it in. Lock it down.

No questions. No noise. No doors left open.

He placed the knife back in the drawer.

Walked to his room.

The rings were still on the desk — silver and platinum, side by side like a past and a promise.

He looked at them.

Didn't touch them.

But he didn't put them away, either.

He left the door cracked an inch.

And didn't close it all night.