The metallic scent of spent pellets and oiled iron hung heavily in the confined space of the shooting stall. Elea felt the residual heat of the air rifle seeping through her leather gloves, a pulsing warmth that served as a jarring reminder of what she had just done. The world around her had narrowed to the size of a pinhole, and as she snapped back to reality, the vibrant neon lights of the Prater fairground felt blindingly bright. She lowered the weapon slowly, her heart hammering a frantic rhythm against her ribs that no amount of professional breathing could mask.
"I believe that is ten out of ten," Elea said, her voice sounding thin and hollow in her own ears.
The stall owner stood paralyzed, his mouth slightly agape, staring at the row of metal ducks that had been decimated in a
