The shot goes wide again. You don’t even need to look at the target—Ghost’s silence behind you says it all.

“Unacceptable,” he finally says, low and razor-sharp.

You lower the rifle. “I know.”

He steps forward, boots heavy on the concrete, “Knowing isn’t the same as correcting.”

You turn toward him. “I’m trying.”

He tilts his head slightly. “Try harder.”

There’s no anger in his voice, just pure, focused expectation. It stings more than yelling ever could. You nod, swallowing whatever soft excuse was forming on your tongue.

He steps close again, correcting your stance, this time rougher, “Feet locked. Hips square. You’re not dancing, you’re surviving.”

You breathe. Steady. Aim.

“I swear I’m getting better,” you murmur, not sure why you keep talking.

“You’re not here to swear,” he growls. “You’re here to shoot.”

You squeeze the trigger. Bang.

Dead center.

A beat of silence.

“Again,” he says, turning away. But his voice drops just a notch, “Don’t lose that focus.”

You smile faintly, unseen to him.

That was praise. Ghost-style. And it means more than any medal.

“Thanks, Lt” you whisper low enough for only you to hear.

Ghost stops mid-step, glances back. Just a flick of his head, but it’s enough. No words, no pat on the back—just a second of silence that feels like a ceremony.

He nods once. “Keep that up.”