The air within the cramped shooting stall seemed to vanish, replaced by the sharp, metallic scent of spent air pellets and the dry aroma of aged wood. Elea felt the weight of the rifle in her hands, a familiar extension of her own will that she had instinctively claimed. The arrogance of the vendor had acted like a spark in a room full of gasoline, igniting a core of professional pride she usually kept buried under layers of silk and art history. As the last pellet struck the iron duck with a definitive, ringing crack, the world around her slowed into a series of static images.
"What in the name of..." The stall owner trailed off, his voice trembling as he stared at the c*****e of fallen metal targets.
Elea did not lower the weapon immediately. She stood in a perfect, low center of gra
