“How much pain do you feel on a scale from 1 to 10?”

  “Three," James lied. It was closer to a six, but he'd learned that admitting to higher pain levels meant more time in bed and fewer privileges.

  The nurse gave him a look that suggested she didn't believe him, but she didn't call him out on it. She checked his vitals, jotting down notes on the sheet. Moments ter she was gone.

  James knew he must have been a frequent nuisance for the medical staff. He couldn't even count how many times he ended up here. At this point the nurses could name the bed after him. But they weren’t really talkative. It was fine, though – James gathered enough information from Ramirez – the guy knew practically everything about everyone and was constantly up to date. James felt grateful that he had taken the time to tell him about things happening around. Today he learned that Adams from tech support had proposed to his girlfriend during their vacation in Hawaii, that the cafeteria's staff pn to introduce "Taco Tuesday" after numerous compints about the monotonous menu, and that Sergeant Kendricks had been spotted taking rumba lessons downtown, which everyone found hirious but no one dared mention to her face.

  Normal life stuff. Things that happened outside missions and debriefings. Things that reminded James that other people had lives beyond these walls.

  The hollow feeling in his chest expanded like a balloon. He couldn’t pinpoint why he felt so sad. It wasn't like he was missing out on anything. He didn't really have any friends aside from Ramirez and Bke, though calling Bke a friend might be stretching it. Bke was more like... well, Bke. Uncategorizable. A force of nature that James orbited around without ever quite understanding why.

  He doubted any of them considered him as a friend. Ramirez was friendly to everyone – it was practically his job to be the agency's walking newspaper. He probably visited him out of pity. And Bke… was he really worried or did Ramirez make it up to make him feel better? Either way, they weren't that close. Not friends. Partners, colleagues, sure. But their retionship was strictly professional, with brief moments of occasional banter.

  James stared at the ceiling. He counted the tiles again. Forty-seven. Nothing had changed.

  What was he even doing here? In this agency? In this life? What purpose did he serve beyond the mission?

  None.

  Outside of the field, he had no real value to anyone. They could repce him tomorrow, and after a week, no one would even remember his name.

  He used to think that his determination and willingness to sacrifice himself for the success of the mission would make him special in some way, someone worth keeping around. No one else was willing to take the risks he took. No one else was willing to give up their life so thoughtlessly for such little price. And yet, the world continued living without him.

  James looked down at his cast on the right arm and the overall state of his body.

  Useless. What good was he like this? Just taking up space and resources.

  It was past 1 AM. The monitoring was less strict and the halls – quiet. The nurses finished their rounds and wouldn’t come to check on him unless he pressed the emergency button.

  He slipped out of bed. The cold floor shocked his bare feet as he silently made his way to the door, peering out to make sure the corridor was empty. He knew the facility well enough to avoid the main hallways. Fifteen minutes ter, he was in the training room, dressed in sweats he'd swiped from a locker room on the way.

  The room was immersed in darkness. He turned on a single light on the far wall near the corner – dim, but enough to light up a small part of the space and make the darkness not overwhelming.

  Using equipment and weights was out of the question, they made too much noise. His gaze stopped at the pull-up bar attached to the dder. His left arm was in a cast, but the right one was still functional.

  A muffled voice somewhere in his head told him it was a bad idea, but James ignored it. Training was the only useful thing he could do when he couldn’t go on the missions. Without training, he couldn’t improve. If he couldn’t improve, he was a liability.

  He jumped. Too low. Again. He managed to grab the bar and pain immediately spread throughout his body. He felt gravity pulling the rest of his limbs down, his broken arm pressed uncomfortably against his side, the stinging in his ribs making it hard to catch his breath. He gritted his teeth, tensing his muscles. His arm shook with the effort, barely able to lift the weight.

  “One,” he gasped, slowly lowering. He had to wait several seconds before trying again. He lifted his neck up so it was above the bar. Passed. “Two…”

  Why was he so weak? On normal days he could do at least ten pull ups one-handed. Now he could barely do one.

  “Three…”

  Tears of pain gathered in his eyes. He needed to push harder. One more. Just one more.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  The sudden voice made James nearly lose his grip. He looked around, finally spotting Bke emerging from the shadows. Dressed in bck, practically invisible.

  “Dang, you scared me.” James carefully jumped down, wincing from the impact. “Sneaking on people. Did you ever consider wearing a bell?”

  Bke looked him up and down. “You should be resting in the medical.”

  “Yeah, well, just thought, you know, I’m gonna stretch my legs and stuff.” James dusted off his shirt, mostly to hide the fact that he was shaking. “Keeping in shape.”

  “Doing pull-ups with a broken arm isn’t ‘keeping in shape’.” Bke said ftly. “It’s reopening a fracture and extending your recovery time.”

  James sighed, leaning against the wall. Smile disappeared from his face. “What am I supposed to do then? I can’t just sit around doing nothing.” He looked down at his cast. “I can’t be useless.”

  He suddenly realized how vulnerable and pathetic it must have sounded. He ughed before Bke could respond.

  “I mean, you know, lounging in bed and being waited on isn't so bad, but I have a feeling Ramirez wants to put me in debt with all that change he spends at the vending machines.”

  Bke didn't ugh.

  “So… yeah.” James rubbed his eyes. “Can we skip the lecture? I already know I'm an idiot.”

  "Come with me," Bke finally said, turning toward the exit.

  James trailed behind him, keeping his head low.

  “If you're escorting me back to medical, I'd rather just go alone. Save yourself the trouble."

  "I'm not."

  “What?” James’ head snapped up. “Where are we going then?”

  “If you’re going to waste your recovery time, you could at least spend it learning something valuable.”

  "Like what?"

  Bke shot him a sidelong gnce. “Something you should’ve learned a long time ago.”

  James considered this. Shooting at a moving object? No, the range was already closed. Surprise attacks? But they had just left the sparring room… What else could Bke have meant? What could he even practice at 2am?

  It wasn't until they passed the main corridor of the Specter division that James realized they were heading towards Bke's office. Bke opened the door and held it open. James looked at him, trying to find some kind of expnation in his eyes, but to no avail. Finally, he hesitantly stepped over the threshold and stopped in the middle of the room.

  It had a minimalist decor, green walls, a desk on an Indian rug, and a window just behind it. Nothing had changed since his st visit a few months ago. He rarely came here - the paperwork didn't concern him, so he had no reason to go into the office, although he was often tempted to. Bke spent most of his time there. Even te at night, James would notice the light still burning within.

  He looked back at Bke, who pointed to the chair across from the desk.

  “Wait here,” he said, disappearing back into the hallway.

  For once, James did as he was told. Maybe because he was really tired, or maybe because he realized how much trouble he was causing again. He looked around uncomfortably, shifting in his chair.

  A moment ter, Bke returned with a paper cup of water, extending it towards James without a word.

  James eyed it suspiciously, taking it with his good hand. "Um, thanks?" The random act of kindness seemed so out of character that he couldn't help wondering if Bke had tampered with it. He sniffed it discreetly. "Did you spit in it or something?"

  "Why would I do that?"

  "I don't know. Just seems weird, you being nice." James took a tentative sip, then, realizing how thirsty he was after his ill-advised workout, drained the cup.

  Bke sat down in the office chair across from him, leaning back, studying James with unsettling intensity. The silence stretched between them until James couldn't stand it anymore.

  "So... what's this valuable lesson I should've learned a long time ago?" James asked, fidgeting with the empty paper cup. "Because if it's patience, I think I'm getting plenty of practice in medical."

  Instead of responding, Bke opened a desk drawer and pulled out a small stack of books, pcing them on the desk between them. James stared at them with confusion.

  "What's this?” he asked, picking up the top book with his good hand. It was slim, with a worn blue cover.

  "This is what you're going to do instead of injuring yourself further," Bke said. "Read."

  James felt a heat crawl up his neck. During the Petersburg mission eight months ago, he admitted to his illiteracy after not being able to read a crucial document containing information on the enemy’s project. Bke knew about it. Was it some kind of a joke? Attempt to embarrass him even further?

  "I can't," James mumbled, setting the book back down awkwardly. "You know that."

  “I know,” Bke confirmed. He tapped the cover of the blue book. "That's precisely why we're here."

  James blinked, processing Bke's words. "Wait. You're going to... teach me to read?"

  "Yes."

  James couldn’t believe that. It had to be some kind of test. Why would Bke take such an initiative?

  “I know enough to get by,” James tried to defend himself. “Numbers, important signs, that sort of thing. I memorize most mission briefs from the verbal."

  “You can memorize all you want. But that won’t help you when you need to read intel in real time. When you have to find the information that could be the difference between life or death.”

  James fiddled with the empty cup, crushing it slightly between his fingers. “I’ll slow you down. You don’t have time to teach someone like me.”

  “Like you meaning what?”

  “You know,” James gestured at himself with a self-deprecating smile. “Hopeless case and all.”

  Bke leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk. “Let me be clear. I don’t waste my time on hopeless cases.”

  James ughed. “I appreciate the thought, but I’ve already tried. I’m terrible.”

  “Everyone is at the beginning. It’s a part of a learning process.”

  James shook his head. “No, not like this. I…” He swallowed hard. “I can’t do this.”

  “You hit a target perfectly from fifty meters away. You defeated all people in the division in hand-to-hand combat. Repeatedly retrieved valuable data and scored above average on psychological tests for intelligence.” Bke said ftly. “You can learn the alphabet.”

  James stared at Bke, caught off guard by the direct assessment. His argumentative defense crumbled under Bke's matter-of-fact delivery. Put that way, it did sound ridiculous to think he couldn’t do this.

  "Five weeks of lessons. Every night. By the time that cast comes off, you'll be reading at an operational level."

  "Why are you doing this?” James asked quietly. “It’s not your problem.”

  Bke was silent for a moment. “I need you at full capacity.”

  It was such a typical Bke answer that James wanted to ugh. Everything about efficiency and mission readiness with him. Never personal.

  “Right. For the mission.”

  “For you. Reading isn’t limited only to missions. It’s a fundamental skill that allows you to use your own brain without being dependent on others."

  James was surprised by the naked honesty in Bke's words, but above all by his willingness to devote his energy and time to this kind of mentoring. While they had indeed practiced together, it had always been physical, never quite intellectual, so focusing on this area was something completely new.

  Was Bke right? Of course he was. All of James' knowledge was based on what he had heard from others, not just about missions but also things about himself. He’d never even read his own contract.

  “Okay,” he said, suddenly feeling small. “So how do we start?”

  Bke nodded once, as if the matter was settled.

  "The alphabet. But not like a child's lesson. We'll connect it to what you already know."

  James raised an eyebrow. "Which is?"

  "Tactical communication. Mission protocols. Things you've memorized by sound."

  Bke pulled out a piece of paper, drawing a grid. "Think about radio call signs. Alphabet communication. Alpha, Bravo, Charlie. You know these perfectly, correct?"

  James nodded.

  "We'll use that," Bke continued. "Each letter has a sound. A sound you already know. We're just connecting those sounds to visual symbols.”

  They spent the next few hours identifying letters and associating them with specific words, sounds, speech. Remembering them all proved to be a greater challenge than anything James had ever faced. He wasn't doing great, or so he felt, but Bke didn’t criticize him. Didn't seem irritated or impatient, and adjusted the pace to suit him.

  By the end of the lesson, James was able to spell his name.