It was as though he could smell her or something. The door was silent, and so was she. He did not even glance her way, but he knew that she was there.

"Take a seat, Aimee," he said, ogling his paperwork. "When you leave, you may slam the door as hard as you want to; I had my portrait fitted into the wall."

She closed the door behind her, scrutinising the edges of Buckley's portrait. It looked like the wall had come with the thing in it.

"You take the fun out of everything," she replied and sat down in her squeaky chair.

"Could you just be serious for a moment?" he finally looked up. "You need a mentor. You won't survive this without one."

"Survive what now?" she inquired, lethargically.

Buckley eased his elbows onto his desk, criss-crossing his fingers for his chin as he does, "Your mother is dangerous, Aimee. She's –"

"Not my mother," Aimee interrupted.

"You can say that as much as you want to. It won't change anything," he sighed. "Listen, she shot you, didn't she?" his eyes wandered in Aimee's.

"What are you talking about?"

"I'm not an idiot," he nearly bellowed. "You're pale, where did she shoot you?"

Aimee exhaled lightly. She stood up and bore her bandaging.

Buckley's eyebrows rose, "Do you know what gun she used?"

"No," she admitted, pulling her blouse down. "But the bullet was gold and about a quarter the length of my side."

"Sit," he instructed. "I think you should have something to eat," he reached below his desk and pressed up onto a buzzer that was fixed there. An assistant marched in almost immediately. "Brad, Aimee is hungry."

"Thanks, but I'm not," she denied the offer. "I just ate anyway. So, who's my mentor?"

"Well, any agent here is surely capable of the job," said Buckley, and he slowly dismissed Brad with the flick of his wrist. However, Brad remained still. "But I think it would be best if you decided, hmm?"

Aimee beamed euphorically, until Brad explained why he was still there.

He addressed Buckley, "Before I leave, I guess you'd like to know that your son is eavesdropping on the two of you."

Stefan sighed, irritated, still leaning with his back against the wall. He had asked Brad not to tell on him. He even said please. Brad left the office quietly, without closing the door, and Stefan sauntered in. He was inside for seconds before Aimee arrowed out of her chair to hold him in an embrace.

"I missed you," she said, squeezing him tighter.

He buried his head in her shoulder as his arms slowly met her upper back. "I missed you, too. I was so freaking worried about you."

He stood back, his hands on her shoulders, and he looked her in the eyes. She smiled heartily, wordlessly, and then she hugged him again. It just felt appropriate. Buckley stood up and loudly cleared his throat to intrude them, but they easily ignored him.

"May I see your wound?" enquired Stefan, beholding her with unreserved concern.

Stefan had a secret discomfort when it came to blood. No amount of practice in GINM or on the field could acquaint him with its stench and colour, but he felt a need to see the severity of her wound, to make sure she would be alright.

"It's bandaged," she answered, with a faint laugh, exposing the section.

"Later then?" he asked. "Oh, and another thing... may I be your mentor?" he smiled brightly, as a child would.

She glanced at him and smiled, "That's a silly question. Stefan, who else would I pick?"

Buckley coughed loudly again and stepped nearer to them, his right hand over his mouth momentarily – as if he had manners.

"Gavin," he mentioned. "His ranking in The Arena is much higher than Stefan's and he is more resourceful. You already know him as well as you know us."

"Are you serious?" posed Stefan, disbelieving.

Buckley smirked, "It was just a suggestion."

"Wait, what's The Arena?" asked Aimee, sort of hoping to narrow the tension.

Her question was not answered. She crossed glimpses between the two of them. The fury in Stefan's eyes scared her. She hated seeing him that angry. Why did he have such a short temper when it came to his father anyway?

Buckley didn't abandon him, she thought, but then she realised that she actually knew nothing about their past. She tried to say as little as possible, in case she would somehow spike further argue, but at the same time she had to say something to stop them. To stop the glare that Stefan was giving Buckley, and their weirdly silent feuding.

"Stefan will be my mentor," she blurted, "no matter what."

"Really?" he queried excitedly, as though she had said something completely out of this world.

"Really?" Buckley mumbled to himself, unreasonably disgusted by Aimee's decision.

She held Stefan's hand steadily, "Of course."

Aimee walked him out of the office, glaring at Buckley on their way. Stefan closed the door behind them, and then randomly, quizzically, started circling Aimee.

"What are you doing?" she asked and spun around rapidly to face him.

"Are you going to train in those?" he wondered and observed her attire.

"There is nothing wrong with my clothes," she crossed her arms.

"Can you run in those shoes?"

Aimee chortled, "The heels aren't high."

He tilted his head, smiling naughtily. He would have raced her to the Arena doors, – he wanted to see her smile again before all the seriousness of training – but he looked down at his leg, and his smile disappeared.

He looked up again, "What about your top and pants, can you move in them?"

Maybe, she thought, but the word that left her mouth enthusiastically was "Definitely!" Oh wow, Aimee, she thought to herself again.

"Good!" exclaimed Stefan. He bent courteously, "This way, my lady, I'll show you to The Arena," and took her hand.