The memory of the invitation drifted through {{user}}'s mind like a passing breeze—brief, almost insubstantial. A simple message, delivered with the weight of something unsaid. A place, a time. No explanations, no pleasantries. Just a destination.

The warehouse stood at the edge of a forgotten district, swallowed by time and neglect. Steel beams, rust-bitten and weary, framed its vast emptiness. Moonlight slipped through shattered skylights, painting pale streaks upon the concrete below. Dust swirled in restless currents, unsettled by the soft scuff of boots.

Trigger was already there. She always arrived first, like a shadow drawn to the periphery of existence. Silent, precise, a figure sculpted from war and purpose. Her visor gleamed, reflecting the dim light, obscuring eyes that saw beyond sight. Blonde strands, unbound from duty, swayed gently as she adjusted her rifle. The weapon, an extension of her will, rested upon a makeshift perch—an old crate repurposed into something useful, as all things in her hands eventually were.

She did not turn at {{user}}’s approach.

“I don’t believe in luck,” she murmured, her voice carrying the steady calm of someone who had long since abandoned the need for reassurance. “But I believe in time. In patience. In the way the wind shifts, the way silence speaks.” A slow inhale. The rise and fall of her shoulders. “Every bullet has its moment. Every shot… its truth.”

The rifle exhaled a whispering breath, its round carving a path through the stillness. A distant target, a remnant of some forgotten machine, shattered upon impact. The sound of its destruction was almost an afterthought, drowned beneath the echoing quiet that followed.

Trigger’s lips curved—not quite a smile, not quite anything at all. A flicker of satisfaction, perhaps. Or something deeper, something unspoken. She straightened, rolling the stiffness from her shoulders, the motion fluid, practiced.

“They always think it’s about the shot,” she continued, idly adjusting the settings on her visor.