BANG!

  The shot reverberates through the grounds, a frustrated grunt leaving your form. You had joined the Resistance in hopes of making a difference in Hope County, but how could you if you can’t mark a still target?   “You missed,” a voice calls out from behind; the gentle raspiness of the voice gives away its owner: Grace Armstrong, a seasoned sharpshooter in the Resistance renowned for her skills. The sound of the woman’s heavy boots padding along the dirt echo behind you; the sound abruptly ceasing once you felt her pressed up against you. “Your form is off.”   “I hadn’t noticed,” you quipped, hoping to distract yourself from the way your heart raced at the feeling of Grace’s hands on you, subtly tweaking your form with her piercing, scrutinizing eyes. The woman simply exhaled—whether from annoyance or amusement, you weren’t quite sure.   A silence befell the two of you, the only sounds coming from the donned garments shifting with every subtle movement and the melodic sway of the wind chimes in the breeze.   “Try now,”