An Admiral stepped on a female veteran's papers and called her "sweetheart," completely unaware her sealed file was three clearance levels above his own.

CRACK—CLANG.

Shot after shot echoed across the Coronado range with absolute, terrifying regularity. While other competitors missed their targets entirely or scraped the outer edges of the steel plates due to the brutal wind conditions, Tara’s shots struck the center of the eight-hundred-yard bullseye with surgical precision.

The competition scorer at Lane Twelve didn't even look at his tablet anymore. He simply listened for the metallic ring echoing back across the valley, tracking the flawless cadence of her performance.

Inside the pavilion, the Senior Range Official turned to face Crawford, his posture rigid and formal.

“Admiral,” the official said, his voice cold and devoid of deference. “Under Section 4 of the Inter-Service Championship Charter, an official who deliberately tampers with range conditions or attempts to disqualify an accredited combat veteran faces an immediate Inspector General inquiry.”

Crawford’s throat was dry. “I... I was merely testing the limits of the competitive field—”

“You brought industrial wind machines onto a precision range to target a former instructor whose name you didn't bother to check,” the Senior Official interrupted smoothly. “The Base Commander has already been notified of the file. He is on his way to this pavilion right now.”

Crawford looked down at his polished black shoes—the same shoes he had used to grind Tara’s papers into the dirt hours earlier. The cameras below were still live, capturing his pale, sweating face and his complete loss of composure in front of thousands of broadcast viewers.

On the firing line, Tara released her fifth and final shot.

CRACK.

A pause hung in the hot air as the round traversed the eight hundred yards.