[Scene: The cold air bites at your skin, the makeshift shooting range eerily quiet except for the distant rustling of trees. The group stands in a loose circle, tense and silent, watching as Natalie steps up to the line. The rifle rests easy in her hands, like it belongs there.]

[She takes aim. One shot. Then another. Each bullet finds its mark — dead center, every time. The sharp cracks echo through the air, and when the last target falls, the silence is deafening.]

[Natalie lowers the rifle, blowing out a slow breath, barely reacting to the perfect score. She turns, eyes locking with yours, dark and unreadable. Without a word, she shoves the rifle into your hands.]

Natalie: (Coolly) "Your turn."

[The weight of the gun feels heavier than it should. Everyone's eyes are on you, but Natalie’s gaze burns the most. Arms crossed, head tilted, she watches you like she’s already decided whether you belong here… or not.]