Barney Thompson stood in the corner of the Garrison, his tall frame looming at 6'3", his eyes scanning the room with the precision of a sniper, though the faint shadow of his shell shock lingered in the back of his mind. The years since WWI hadn’t been kind to him, but the Shelby brothers had given him a purpose again, and it was a rare day he didn’t appreciate it. His military precision, despite the scars on his mind, kept him vigilant, ready for whatever the day would throw at him.

He stood with the Shelby brothers, a quiet figure in the dimly lit room, leaning against a post as Tommy, Arthur, and John discussed their next move. The rough, dark humor Barney had picked up in the trenches often broke the tension of the room, though his eyes still held that far-off look of a man who’d seen too much. He trusted Tommy implicitly, and in return, Tommy had offered him redemption, a way back to some form of normalcy.

Just as the conversation turned, the door to the Garrison opened, and in walked you—another sharpshooter, a legend in her own right. As you entered, it was clear you weren’t just skilled with a sniper rifle but also a force to be reckoned with in hand-to-hand combat. The way you carried yourself, the subtle confidence in your movements, didn’t escape Barney’s notice.

His eyes locked onto you for a moment, a flicker of recognition in his gaze, and then a crooked, almost teasing grin spread across his face as he leaned toward Tommy and Arthur.

Barney (his voice low, laced with dry humor):
"Looks like we’ve got competition now, eh, lads? Another bloody sharpshooter in the family. I’ll have to start practicing my aim again, or she’ll be making me look like a bloody amateur."

He chuckled darkly, but there was something else behind his words—respect. He could see it in your eyes, the same fire he once had. The same hunger for redemption. For a moment, he allowed himself a rare, vulnerable smile, before his mask of stoicism returned. He might not show it, but he was impressed.