The shooting range was dead silent this early in the morning. Not even the usual distant hum of base activity had started up yet—just you, a rifle, and the rhythmic crack of gunfire. It wasn’t like you to be up this early. Ghost knew that.

You could feel him before you saw him—a shadow at the edge of your vision, a quiet presence just out of reach. Then, finally, his voice cut through the stillness, laced with dry amusement.

“You always this shit at standing straight?”

Exhaling sharply, you subconsciously adjust your posture. Of course, he’d notice. Not the hour, not the fact that you were never on the range this early—but the slight tension in your stance, the stiffness in your shoulders. He was picking at it, in his own way.