Dante looked at his daughter. Twelve years old. Requesting training. Wanting strength. Capability. Self-reliance.

Part of him wanted to refuse. To keep her innocent. Protected. Never needing to know violence. Never needing skills he'd used for survival.

But another part. The realistic part. The father who'd survived everything. That part understood. The world was dangerous. Unpredictable. Skills mattered. Strength mattered. Preparation mattered.

"Why do you want this?" he asked. Not refusing. Just understanding. "Really. Honestly. What's driving this?"

"Kenya. The coup. Seeing you prepare to fight. To defend us. Seeing Mama's fear. Knowing we were helpless. Dependent. Unable to protect ourselves or each other. I don't want to be helpless....