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The water tower, a steel sentinel looming over the wasteland of the sleeping town, reverberated with a hollow moan as a nocturnal breeze skirted its flanks. Perched atop this desolate giant, a man stood motionless, a specter against the star-pocked sky.
"Steady," he whispered to himself, a mantra that cut through the chill night air. His breath formed transient ghosts that danced away into nothingness. The man's hands, gloved in black, moved with precise intent, unfurling the tripod of his scoped rifle with practiced ease.
He mumbled, another soft utterance lost to the vast emptiness around him. The metal clicked quietly as he secured the stand, a sound starkly alien amidst the quietude of the hour. He was alone here, but not lonely; solitude was his chosen companion, the perfect ally for the task at hand.
He'd once heard it said that if one enjoyed their work, they didn't work a day in their lives. Or something like that...
But he was more into his hobbies.
Work paid the bills... but his hobbies? That gave him a reason to breathe.
He'd grown up hunting, after all. And he had a very specific taste in what he hunted.
The scope, when he peered through it, transformed the world into a series of concentric circles—a tunnel of focus where only his target existed. His heartbeat slowed, thudding gently in his chest like the measured tick of a clock. In this moment, his existence narrowed to the delicate alignment of crosshairs and the distant, unsuspecting road below.
"Wind's calm... good." He adjusted the turret on his scope ever so slightly, accounting for the negligible breeze. The numbers etched on the dial were familiar friends, their meaning ingrained deep within his subconscious after countless hours spent on ranges and rooftops alike.
"Alignment's perfect," he observed under his breath, the words serving less as a confirmation and more as a ritual of readiness. The man blinked once, long and deliberate, before reopening his eyes with razor-sharp clarity. His mind was clear, any extraneous thought swept away by the tide of concentration that now filled him.
Three tours overseas, working special forces... He knew the ritual. Things hadn't ended well on his last tour.
He frowned, considering this, and exhaled deeply, trying to steady his nerves. A racing heartbeat only sent bullets astray.
"Time to work," he said tersely, the words a signal to himself that the rehearsal was over. This was the real performance. Every muscle, every synapse, was honed for this singular purpose. He was no longer just a man; he was the embodiment of precision, a conduit for the cold machinery cradled in his arms.
Sniper school. Demolitions school.
He'd made it through BUDS on his first try.
As the minutes slipped by, unheeded by the man and the silent town below, the water tower stood watch, an indifferent monolith to the impending act that would soon ripple through the stillness of the night.
The reticle of his scope hovered like a predatory shadow over the cracked asphalt of the old road. Far below, the moonlight cast a faint glow on the dust that seemed to rise and fall with each passing second, a rhythmic pulse in the night's stillness.
"Almost time," he murmured, his voice barely a whisper against the hush of darkness enveloping him. His finger rested lightly on the trigger, a pianist poised for the first note of an ominous symphony.
He tracked the distant headlights as they bobbed unevenly along the road, the beams cutting through the haze of night. They betrayed the presence of his quarry—steady, unsuspecting—a driver cocooned in the false security of their vehicle.
"Come on," he coaxed soundlessly, as if willing the target closer with the force of his gaze alone. The crosshairs danced ahead of the approaching truck, anticipating its path, ghosting over unseen potholes and dips in the neglected road.
"Keep it steady," he breathed out, a mantra to accompany the rhythm of his heartbeat. He adjusted his position ever so slightly, shifting the weight of the rifle against his shoulder. The metal was cool, familiar, an extension of his will.
His thoughts were a silent stream—calculating distance, speed, trajectory. There was no room for doubt or hesitation; those had been stripped away long before this moment, in the solitude of practice ranges and empty fields.
"Patience," he reminded himself, feeling the world narrow down to the scope's circular frame. "Wait for it."
The truck drew closer, entering the perfect window of opportunity. He exhaled slowly, a controlled release of breath that mirrored the precision of his movements. The calm within him was the eye of a storm, a still point in a whirlwind of action that was about to unfold.
"Steady... Now," he commanded softly, the word a trigger in itself. His finger responded, the pressure on the trigger deliberate, unhurried. A soft click sounded, almost imperceptible, followed by the muffled report of the rifle. The bullet cut through the night, a harbinger of chaos crafted with meticulous care.
"Hit," he confirmed, though there was no one to hear. The satisfaction was his alone, a private victory in the quiet theatre of his mind. He watched with clinical detachment as the scene unfolded below. A brief moment of lag between the action and the consequence.
It was this moment he found most euphoric--the time before the bullet left the rifle and impacted the target. There was nothing more exciting than waiting for the sound of impact.
The truck's tires exploded, rubber rending under the bullet’s kiss. "Bingo," he muttered, the scope still warm against his cheek. The vehicle's sudden betrayal of momentum sent it careening across the asphalt, the peacefulness of the night shattered by the screeching lament of metal on road.
"Come on, come on..." he coaxed the truck, as if urging a beast to charge. The driver fought the wheel, a futile wrestle with physics, the headlights flailing wildly like the arms of a drowning swimmer. He could almost hear the curse words spewing from her lips, feel her panic pulsating through the scope.
"Fight all you want," he said, a low growl in the darkness.
