The atmosphere instantly plummeted to freezing point.

  Vance coldly plucked the paper airplane from his face and crumpled it into a ball.

  Timmy and Aria immediately pointed at Elian in unison.

  "It was the kid!"

  "He shot it!"

  When Mr. Heaton's icy, zero-degree gaze swept over, the young man didn't dare breathe.

  He sat frozen with a stiff smile, mentally reciting his final rites—

  Rest in peace.

  "If you're going to throw something at me next time, at least use a betting slip that will win."

  Unexpectedly, Vance merely spoke in a flat tone.

  "Uh... I'll... do better?" Elian ventured hesitantly.

  "Wait, Boss, what do you mean by that?" Timmy snapped back to reality, agitated. "This slip is guaranteed money in the bank!"

  Boss Heaton ignored him, turning instead to Elian. "Why didn't you reply to my message?"

  "What message?"

  The young man was momentarily stunned, then remembered the sorry state of his phone.

  It seemed not only Dylan's messages were affected; this phone wasn't receiving his boss's messages either.

  Scratching his head, he pulled out a truly pitiful-looking black phone from his pocket.

  "It's not that I'm not replying, it's just that my phone... well, seems a bit... off."

  He held up the phone as if displaying a peculiar artifact.

  The black casing was scraped and chipped in patches, the screen covered in a web of fine cracks, even the notification bar was half-missing. The whole device was dim to a pathetic degree, looking ready to short-circuit at any moment.

  "What is this?" Vance took it, glanced at it, and his brow furrowed deeply.

  The scratched casing faintly revealed a few English letters—some no-name brand Vance had never seen before.

  "Uh... my phone?"

  "This can be called a phone?"

  "Well... because it's been water-damaged, but as long as it works..."

  "Are you sure it works?" Vance said.

  Strictly speaking, it seemed it didn't really "work" anymore.

  After all, he hadn't received a single one of his boss's messages.

  "It does have an extra feature, though. The news reported some phones could spontaneously combust. If you run into a robber, you could throw it as an explosive?" Elian offered with an innocent face. "Haha... ha?"

  Boss Heaton looked up, his gaze sweeping over him impassively.

  He stared until Elian felt a chill in his heart, then finally spoke. "The message I sent was to ask if you have a firearm."

  "A gun?" Elian never expected that question. "No, and I'm not really good with them either."

  So, Boss Heaton took out his own phone and made a call.

  "Get me a phone and have it delivered. Yes, the latest model..."

  He glanced up at the bewildered Elian and added, "Deliver it now. And get a car ready."

  Before the young man could figure out what was happening, he was already being ushered into a car headed downtown.

  In the car, Elian clutched the brand-new, shiny phone in his hand, his expression somewhat dazed.

  "So... where are we going? Vance?"

  "To get you a gun."

  What kind of bizarre shopping trip is this? Elian thought.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  "That illegal club last time was too dangerous. You need the ability to protect yourself," Vance said, as if reading his confusion.

  "That was an accident... I'm not going back there."

  Still, Elian didn't deny that America could be a somewhat dangerous place.

  Well, maybe "somewhat" was an understatement.

  "I never, ever want a similar accident to happen again," Vance's tone was practically.

  "Alright, you're right..."

  Thinking of Dylan's bloodied head, Elian still felt a lingering fear.

  They arrived at a high-end firearms retailer. More than a gun shop, it resembled a small museum.

  Many of the firearms were meticulously displayed, embedded like artworks in transparent, bulletproof glass walls.

  Behind a black glass desk, the owner, wearing a well-tailored dark blue suit, greeted them with a professional, mild-mannered demeanor.

  "Mr. Heaton, here to see the collection again?" the owner asked with a smile.

  "No. I'm here to pick a handgun for him," Vance indicated Elian with a tilt of his head.

  "May I ask the intended purpose? For home defense?"

  "In a way. He needs a reliable one. First purchase," Vance responded succinctly.

  The owner's gaze shifted to Elian, seemingly assessing his build and posture. He nodded. "For a first-timer, I'd recommend a medium barrel length, something with a bit more weight. Less recoil, easier to control."

  He opened a glass case, retrieved several handguns, checked they were unloaded, and placed them one by one on a velvet pad.

  The owner meticulously explained the differences between each gun. Elian felt somewhat overwhelmed, sinking into a state of indecision.

  "Of course, the only way to buy a gun is to try it," the owner winked at Elian. "When it's the right one for you, you'll know the moment you hold it."

  The statement reminded Elian, involuntarily, of a certain British wizarding novel—that classic line about the wand choosing the wizard.

  In the end, he picked up a SIG Sauer P320. While it didn't evoke the fated, spring-like feeling described in that magical tale, it was, by all accounts, the most comfortable to handle.

  "This one," he nodded.

  "Good eye. This is the updated version several state police departments have been adopting recently," the owner smiled approvingly.

  Next came the forms, ID scanning, and background check application. When Elian received the gun in its hard-shell protective case, his feelings were mixed. He hoped he'd never have to use it in a dangerous situation.

  Since Elian didn't know how to use a gun, Vance very "efficiently" suggested they go try it out today.

  They arrived at a well-equipped, high-end shooting range. It wasn't crowded, feeling more like a venue reserved for the upper echelons.

  The young man looked around; it was his first time in such a place.

  Small display shelves on the walls even held several models of specialized earmuffs and glasses, along with various training aids.

  Elian first put on protective goggles, then a simple black tactical vest.

  But each time he tried to fasten the belt into the buckle, he was just a bit off.

  Boss Heaton watched him adjust it several times, still leaving it loose, and finally walked over.

  "Let me."

  A pair of hands reached for the buckles at his waist. They were so close Elian could hear Vance's breathing.

  The young man caught the faint scent coming from the other—a comforting, mesmerizing blend of sea air, crisp fir, and a very light touch of musk.

  Elian could even see Vance's eyelashes, lowered as he on adjusting the vest for him.

  His eyelashes were platinum blond too, so light.

  Elian's thoughts drifted off on a tangent, thinking about this irrelevant detail.

  The rustling sound of fabric rubbing was particularly distinct in the quiet changing room. Vance's knuckles brushed against that sensitive spot on Elian's side, making him straighten up unconsciously.

  Suddenly, his waist felt a tight pull—when he came back to his senses, Vance had already fastened the buckles properly.

  "The vest needs to fit snugly to be effective."

  Vance's voice murmured near his ear, his breath seeming to fall near Elian's shoulder. Elian felt enveloped in a warm, pressuring aura, momentarily feeling a bit dazed.

  "Got it..."

  When Vance stepped back, an inexplicable sense of loss washed over the young man.

  "I'll demonstrate first. You follow."

  He nodded, silently following Vance into the shooting lane, his fingers unconsciously touching the spot that had just been adjusted.

  Elian had expected Vance to be a stern and impatient teacher. Instead, to his surprise, though Boss Heaton's tone remained cool, he was extremely patient.

  Starting from the very basics, loading, safety, and chambering a round, he guided Elian step by step.

  "Put on the earmuffs. Begin firing," Vance said.

  Elian complied, trying to raise the P320 in his hands. The gun felt solid and powerful, its lines making it seem like a piece of metallic craftsmanship.

  The first shot missed.

  The report was louder than he expected, the recoil leaving a numb, tingling sensation in his palm.

  Vance patiently explained—how to press the trigger gently, how to aim, keeping the body stable—and demonstrated.

  Elian fired three more shots. While they hit the target, the accuracy wasn't there.

  "You're anticipating the recoil," Vance stood behind him, immediately spotting the issue in his posture. "So before you even fire, your shoulders are already tensing up."

  He didn't scold, just continued in the same steady tone. "Recoil makes people nervous. All beginners are the same. At the moment of firing, they instinctively grip tighter, trying to fight the force, but that only makes them lose control."

  He moved closer, standing to Elian's side and slightly behind, so near their body heat was perceptible.

  "Here, I'll show you how to adjust." His hands gently guided Elian's stance. "Inhale, relax, exhale."

  His voice was low, his rhythm steady, carrying a power that automatically calmed the mind.

  "Fear is always the enemy that fires first. Only by mastering it can you truly control your aim," Vance added.

  "Haha... is that your life philosophy?"

  "Focus. Try again."

  One more shot. It hit dead center in the bullseye.

  "I actually hit it," he said, eyes widening slightly.

  "Well done," Vance nodded. "You overcame the fear."

  Elian let out a breath. Seeing the approval in the other's eyes, a sudden curiosity struck him.

  "Then... what are you afraid of?"

  The moment the words left his mouth, the air seemed to freeze.

  Vance looked at him, his gaze landing squarely in Elian's eyes.

  You.

  Your disappearance.

  Horrifying images surfaced in his mind—memory-shadows of threatening hands reaching from a distance, taking away everything he held dear.

  Yet, as the Heaton heir habitually tried to conceal his emotions, he ultimately didn't voice it.

  "You don't want to know," Vance said quietly after a long pause.

  "What's with all the secrecy?"