"Show me what you've got," I say.
She squares up to the target. Close to right, but not quite.
I tap the inside of her ankle with my boot. "Tighter. Drop your weight."
She adjusts. Takes aim. Fires.
The suppressor cuts the sound to a sharp crack. The cardboard punches inward, low and left of center.
"Again."
She resets. Breathes. Squeezes.
Still left.
"You're anticipating the recoil." I step in front of her. Face her directly. "Look at me."
She does. Green eyes wide, a little wild.
I put my hands on her shoulders. Square them. Feel the flutter of her pulse in her throat.
"This is what the internet can't teach you. The gun is a tool. You're in control. Not the weapon. Not the fear. You."
She holds my gaze. Something shifts behind her eyes—the fear settling, hardening into something else.
"Again," she says.
I step aside.
She turns to the target. Plants her feet. Raises the Glock.
She fires.
The suppressor swallows the worst of it, but the thwack still echoes in my chest. Bark splinters off the dead pine.
"Again," I say.
She does. Steadier this time. Feet planted. Arms locked.
Three more shots. Two hit. One goes wide.
"Breathe. You're holding it in."
She exhales. Fires again. Dead center.
"Good."
She lowers the weapon. Stares at it.
"It's just metal," I say. "You're the one who decides what it does. And remember — hesitation gets you killed. You decide before you draw. Not after."
Her jaw tightens.
She raises the Glock.
And empties the magazine.
Shot after shot after shot—fast, brutal, reckless. The pine shudders. Bark explodes. She doesn't stop until the slide locks back and the silence crashes down like a hammer.
