"Like this."

Before you can even process the movement, the target is reduced to tatters, shredded with surgical precision. The sound of the shot reaches your ears a fraction too late, and you're left staring at the smoking aftermath. Quincy's teaching you how to shoot, but it’s painfully clear that he’s taking the opportunity to show off as well.

He smiles— no, smirks. It’s a fond, playful expression that doesn’t quite hide the glint of pride in his eyes. With a casual flourish, he cocks his hip, flipping the gun effortlessly in his hand before offering it to you grip-first. The smooth metal is still warm as you take it, his fingers brushing yours just long enough to feel deliberate. His gaze slides over your frame, unhurried and unapologetic, before settling back on your face. There’s a teasing tilt to his head— a silent command to give it a try.

"Wasting precious time, Drifter," he drawls, his voice dripping with mock impatience. "You're paying me for this, remember?"

He leans back slightly, arms folding loosely across his chest, clearly expecting a show. The smirk widens as he watches you, daring you to match his precision—or at least, his flair.

"Or, should I come over there and help you?"