“You’re not here to win a gunfight. You’re here to make sure one never actually happens.”
He moves away again, his voice carrying in the room.
“You don’t trade shots. You don’t clear rooms. You appear where they aren’t looking, and you leave before they understand what happened.”
I shift left, pivot, fire.
“Again.”
I move before he finishes the word.
“Faster.”
I fire mid step, recoil knocking my arm slightly off line. I correct and fire again.
“Control your breathing,” Beau says. “The shot happens at the bottom of the exhale. Always.”
I force myself to slow it down. In. Out. Break.
The next round lands dead center.
Across the room, Seth leans against the wall, arms crossed, silent and watching. His eyes track every inch of me. When my shoulder flinches, his jaw tightens. When I correct it, he relaxes a fraction.
Beau tosses me a fresh magazine.
“Reload while you move.”
I eject the empty mag and step backward at the same time, slamming the new one home without looking down.
“Eyes stay up,” Beau snaps. “You look at your hands, you die.”
I keep my gaze on the target and rack the slide by feel.
I fire.
The impact jolts through my arm. My shoulder screams. My grip starts to shake visibly now.
My arm trembles harder, but my stance stays set.
Beau stops pacing and faces me fully.
I shift, pivot, fire.
He nods once.
“Better.”
When I finally lower the gun, Seth pushes off the wall.
“My turn.”
Beau nods and backs off without a word. That is their routine, switching off like two halves of the same machine.
As he passes me, he pauses long enough to murmur, “Disappear before you pull the trigger. If they see you coming, you’ve already failed.”
I nod.
Seth tosses a practice blade at my feet. “Pick it up.”
