Chapter 7
Arthur walked a few steps closer, crouching down beside the mat to get a better look at the boy's form. He noticed the way Lucas managed his trigger control—not jerking or slapping the metal, but pressing straight back with the pad of his finger until the break surprised him. It was advanced technique, the kind taught by old-school instructors who understood that marksmanship was ninety percent mental discipline and ten percent equipment.
“You’re rushing the third one,” Arthur said softly, his voice cutting through the foam earplugs just enough for Lucas to catch the warning. “Take an extra second. The wind is picking up from the ridge.”
Lucas paused, his finger resting lightly outside the trigger guard. He lifted his head from the stock, blinking against the bright sunlight, and looked sideways at Arthur. The older man’s eyes were kind, weathered by decades of outdoor life and countless hours on various ranges across the state. Lucas gave a small, almost imperceptible nod of acknowledgment, appreciating the advice without letting it break his concentration.
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Marcus crossed his arms again, watching the interaction with a critical eye. He didn't like outsiders—especially young ones—disrupting the established hierarchy of the club. To Marcus, the shooting range was a sanctuary for dedicated enthusiasts who had paid their dues, bought top-tier gear, and earned their place through years of membership fees. A kid in a torn hoodie showing up with a court order and an old rifle felt like an affront to the natural order of things. Yet, as he watched Lucas slide back down into the prone position and prepare for the third round, Marcus couldn't deny the undeniable evidence on the target board. The boy wasn't playing around. He was shooting with a purpose that felt heavy, almost desperate.
Lucas took another deep breath, letting the advice settle into his routine. He reacquired the target, the crosshairs steadying against the grey background of the paper. The wind gave a sudden surge, fluttering the edges of his dark hoodie, but Lucas held his ground, compensating instinctively before squeezing the trigger once more.
