Ryan was seven years old when his world came crashing down.
The memory hit him with perfect clarity, more vivid than any dream had a right to be.
He stood in Matt's training room, small hands wrapped around a gun that felt too heavy, too real. The weight of it made his arms shake, but he held it steady like Matt had taught him.
A man knelt on the floor in front of him, hands bound behind his back, face already bruised and bleeding from where Matt had hit him. The man's eyes were wide with fear, darting between the small boy holding the gun and the man standing behind him.
"He was one of them, Ryan," Matt's voice came from over his shoulder, steady and encouraging. "One of the betrayers who killed your parents, who murdered your mother and father and all the people who worked for them."
Seven-year-old Ryan's hands tightened on the gun, his parents were dead because of people like this. Bad people who hurt good people.
