Chapter 4 - THE GUNNERY SERGEANT
Castellin didn't just stand up—he came to absolute, rigid attention behind the wooden counter. He rounded the corner of the reception desk with crisp, measured steps, his eyes locked onto Grace with a level of profound, solemn reverence that caught everyone in the reception room off guard.
He extended his thick, calloused right hand out toward her, his palm steady and firm.
"Gunnery Sergeant Roy Castellin," he announced, his deep voice carrying an unmistakable ring of deep respect. "Retired. Third Battalion, Fourth Marines."
Grace met his gesture without hesitation, taking his hand in a strong, precise grip, offering a subtle, respectful nod of her head.
"Avery," Grace replied politely. "Good to meet you, Gunny."
Brett stepped away from his staging bench, his brow furrowed, his boots clicking heavily against the linoleum floor as he closed the distance between them. He looked from Castellin’s stiff, respectful posture to his sister-in-law’s calm face, his mouth slightly open in utter bewilderment.
"Wait..." Brett interrupted, forcing a chuckle that sounded hollow in the quiet room. "Hold on. You two know each other?"
Castellin didn't break eye contact with Grace for a single second as he answered the police officer.
"Never met her," Castellin said flatly, his voice hard as iron.
Brett blinked, adjusting the heavy duty watch on his wrist as his confusion deepened into visible frustration. He looked down at Grace, who remained completely relaxed beside the counter, offering no further explanation.
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"Never met her?" Brett repeated, his tone rising slightly. "Then what are you talking about? What's with the nickname?"
Castellin finally turned his head, looking at the police officer as if noticing him for the very first time. His sharp gray eyes took in Brett’s dark polo, his tactical watch, and his cocky, posturing stance, recognizing instantly the classic profile of a man who thought he knew everything about shooting simply because he carried a sidearm on duty.
