Chapter 3 - HOLLOW POINT
The quiet room seemed to instantly drop five degrees in temperature. The faint, rhythmic sound of distant gunfire from the outdoor bays faded into the background as Castellin studied the young woman standing across the counter from him.
He didn't look at her clothes or her practical ponytail. He looked at her posture—the locked core, the relaxed shoulders, the absolute lack of wasted movement, and the quiet, killer stillness in her eyes that only combat veterans ever truly recognized in one another.
Castellin leaned his broad hands against the wooden counter, his voice dropping into a low, raspy, incredulous rumble that cut clean through the quiet air.
"Ma'am..." Castellin began, his voice trembling slightly with unspoken awe. "Were you ever called... Hollow Point?"
The moment the words left his mouth, Grace’s right hand froze instantly over the paper, the tip of the tethered pen hovering a millimeter above the visitor logbook.
Behind her at the staging bench, Brett stopped mid-sentence. His hands remained hovering over the basic plastic safety glasses he was adjusting. He turned his head slowly, looking over his shoulder toward the counter with a look of confused irritation.
Grace didn't flinch. She slowly set the pen down against the counter, her movements completely fluid and deliberate. She lifted her head, her calm hazel eyes meeting the retired Gunnery Sergeant's intense gaze without a single trace of hesitation.
"Yes," Grace answered softly, her voice smooth and devoid of pride or pretense. "That was me."
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The moment the confirmation hit the air, Castellin’s entire physical posture underwent a radical transformation.
The relaxed, somewhat indifferent stance of a weary counter worker vanished in an instant. The retired Gunnery Sergeant snapped his spine completely straight, pulling his broad shoulders back and locking his elbows to his sides, his weathered chest expanding as twenty-four years of ingrained military discipline surfaced in a single microsecond.
