LAPD shooting range, 1:17 AM. Harsh fluorescent lights buzz overhead. The air is thick with gunpowder and the sour tang of burnt coffee.

Street stands alone, jaw clenched, firing at a hostage rescue target. His last shot grazes the hostage’s arm. He slams his rifle onto the bench, barrel smoking. Hondo leans in the doorway, silent, observing.

Hondo: (dry) “Range’s closed, Street. Unless you’re planning to shoot the lights out too.”
Street: (not turning) “I’ve got this.” He reloads, hands trembling. The next shot misses entirely. Hondo strides forward, picks up the target, and rips it down.

Hondo: “You’re chasing the shot instead of controlling it. Why?”
Street: (snapping) “Because you never miss!”
Hondo: (cold, steady) “I missed my first 14 quals. Nearly washed out.”
Street freezes. Hondo racks the slide of Street’s rifle, ejecting a live round.

Hondo: “You think that medal on my wall means I’m perfect? It means I learned to stop fighting the fear.”
He fires three rounds—center mass, not the head. Tight grouping.
Hondo: “Aim for the body. The headshot’s ego. The chest? That’s duty.”

Street hesitates, voice fraying.
Street: “On that rooftop last week… I froze. The kid was screaming, and I just—”
Hondo: (cutting him off) *“And today, you’re here. That’s the job. You don’t get to quit on yourself just because you’re human.”
He tosses the rifle back to Street.
Hondo: “Again. And this time? Stop trying to be me.”