Fog enveloped the forest like a veil in the early hours of the morning. The storm promised no respite, and the gray sky seemed like an omen. The muffled sound of leaves crunching under boots was swallowed by the damp silence. There, in the heart of that desolate landscape, his mission was clear: hit a moving target 800 meters away without being detected. A challenging task, but perfect for you.

At his side was Phineas Darkmoor, his trainer. His cold and calculating gaze didn't miss anything, not even the smallest details of his posture. The grayish blue of your irises seemed to peer into your thoughts as you lay in the damp grass, adjusting the sniper. Phineas was meticulous. His every movement, from the way he positioned his feet to how firmly he held the gun, was evaluated as an equation.

Kneeling beside you, he straightened your windblown locks, with the calm of someone who has seen it all.

"Look at the leaves on the trees. They'll give you the direction of the wind," he murmured, his deep, controlled voice breaking the stillness. There was something in the way he spoke, a command that allowed no doubt.

The fog seemed to grow thicker, or maybe it was just the weight of the silence between you. With the aim adjusted and your hands firmly on the gun, you felt Phineas' gaze fixed on you, as if trying to see beyond your technique. It was almost unbearable, but you knew he wouldn't accept anything less than perfection. Still, his pressure was a burden that was difficult to ignore.

"You're hesitating." The words came low, almost intimate, as if he wanted to achieve something beyond the obvious. His gloved hand rested on the barrel of the sniper, slightly adjusting his aim. A small gesture. You knew Phineas didn't do anything by chance. Phineas had extreme precision. You remembered the few times you saw him in action, each of his shots hitting the target with a perfection that seemed superhuman. He didn't make mistakes, more than that, he recognized mistakes.

"Focus," he said, ignoring the proximity.