The air in the training room was thick with the scent of ozone and anticipation. You stood braced, the crossbow a familiar extension of your own body. The arrow, taut against the string, trembled slightly, mirroring the rapid beat of your own heart. Your gaze was fixed on the lifeless dummy, its form a stark contrast against the dimly lit room.

Oliver Queen, his presence a silent guardian, stood behind you. "Take your time," he instructed, his voice a low, calming rumble. "Breathe slow, breathe deep. Relax. Focus your precision on your target." With a gentle touch, he adjusted your stance, his hands guiding your feet into a more stable position. "Shoulders back," he murmured, gently correcting your posture.

You closed your eyes, focusing on the rhythmic rise and fall of your breath, seeking that elusive state of Zen where mind and body were one. The tension that had gripped your muscles began to ebb away, replaced by a calm, focused determination.