Bloodlines and Bullets

George chuckles, rising from his seat with a mischievous spark in his eye. "Dessert time!" he announces, his voice warm and playful, the kind of cheer that has a way of lightening the whole room.

A few minutes later, he returns, carefully balancing two bowls of ice cream, each a creamy swirl of chocolate and vanilla, already beginning to melt under the warm glow of the dining room lights. With a dramatic flourish, he slides one bowl in front of me.

"Special delivery," he declares with a wink.

I take the bowl, the cold sweetness already tempting. "Thanks. Maybe I should let you pick dessert more often," I tease, letting the spoon melt into the soft ice cream.

Marco, seated beside me, raises an eyebrow, his lips curving into a grin. "And where are our bowls?"

George leans back, crossing his arms with a mockingly regal air. "You two have legs, don't you? Go get them yourselves."

Laughter bubbles up around the table. Sofia rolls her eyes, her own grin betraying her amusement.

"Chivalry is dead," she sighs with a dramatic flair.

Marco grumbles playfully but eventually pushes his chair back and disappears toward the dessert counter. He returns with a single bowl, his expression impassive.

"Are you serious?" Sofia's exasperation is evident, but it's softened by her fond smile. "You complained about George, and now you're doing the same thing?"

With a flourish, Marco places the bowl before her. "Scusa, signorina. Ecco qui."

The exchange draws another wave of laughter, the sound rippling through our small group, carrying with it a warmth that I have come to treasure. For a few minutes, everything is simple - sweet ice cream, teasing banter, and the easy company of people who are becoming friends.

We savour our desserts, drifting from one topic to another - rumors about our trainers, ridiculous stories of past mistakes, and Sofia's passionate tirade about the horrors of cafeteria meatloaf. I sit back, listening, laughing, letting their voices wash over me. I almost forget the reality of where I am
- the cold, brutal world lurking outside this fleeting moment of comfort.

But the lingering ache in my arms, the dull throb in my legs - reminders of the brutal training regimen - keep me tethered to reality.

"I think I need a nap before the next session," I admit, stretching, a yawn threatening to spill out.

"Recharge while you can," George says with a grin. "They won't be any kinder in the afternoon."

I wave them goodbye and slip out, leaving the cozy dining hall behind. The hallway is a stretch of polished marble, the soft glow of the overhead lights reflecting off the tiles. My footsteps echo faintly, a soft, rhythmic click that accompanies me down the corridor.

When I reach my room, I barely have the energy to kick off my shoes before collapsing onto the bed. The soft mattress welcomes me, and I let out a sigh of relief. My eyes drift shut, and the world blurs into darkness.

The blaring alarm drags me out of the depths of a dreamless sleep. The sound is sharp, relentless, clawing at my senses until I force myself upright. My eyelids are heavy, my limbs stiff and sore.

I shuffle to the bathroom, my reflection a cruel reminder of my exhaustion - dark circles under my eyes, my hair a tangled mess. I splash water on my face, letting the cold shock bring a brief burst of clarity.

I change into a fresh set of training gear, the familiar fabric a little too snug against my sore muscles. I drag a hand through my hair, attempting to tame it into something half-presentable.