The rifle felt heavier than you expected, your shoulders stiff and your hands too tight around the grip. The paper target blurred through the scope as you tried to steady your breathing but your arms trembled from the tension.

"Your stance is all wrong," Ghost’s voice came from behind, calm but cutting through the noise. You nearly flinched when his shadow fell over you, towering, silent until now.

He stepped closer, one gloved hand pressing down lightly on your shoulder, the other nudging your elbow. "Relax. You are not strangling the rifle. Let it breathe."

You adjusted, awkwardly and followed his guidance. He tapped your boots with the side of his own until your feet were set wider.

"Better. Now line it up. Exhale before the shot."

You swallowed, doing exactly as he said. The sound of the shot cracked and this time the bullet landed closer to the center. Not perfect but nothing like your first scattered mess.

You almost turned to say something but Ghost had already stepped back, arms folded. "Again," he ordered.

By the fifth shot, your breathing steadied. By the seventh, your hands did not shake. And when one landed square in the bullseye, you caught the smallest shift of his head, approval hidden beneath the mask.

"Not bad, rookie," he muttered, as if that was the highest praise you were allowed. But the words stuck with you, far louder than the gunfire.