The arrogant captain thought she fired at the wrong plate, until a metallic hit echoed from a target nobody was supposed to be shooting at.

The gray-haired operator slowly turned his head, looking at Grant from behind his dark sunglasses. The look was entirely cold, devoid of hostility, yet carrying a weight that made Grant involuntarily take half a step backward.

"Captain Holloway," the operator said calmly, his tone flat. "Your competition target was at one thousand and fifty yards."

"Yes!" Grant asserted, pointing to the white silhouette. "Which she missed!"

"And you hit yours," the operator continued smoothly. "Congratulations. You'll likely win the regional trophy today."

He paused, letting the words sit in the quiet air for a long beat, before turning his gaze back toward the distant mountains.

"Lieutenant Bennett was not competing against you today, Captain," the operator added softly. "She was validating a long-range ballistic profile for an operational requirement that does not exist on your leaderboard."

Grant’s mouth opened slightly, but no words came out. The anger and frustration that had been driving him for the past hour suddenly evaporated, leaving behind a profound, uncomfortable clarity. He had spent the entire afternoon trying to humiliate her, trying to prove his superiority over a shooter who wasn't even playing the same game.

The Range Officer stepped forward, pulling the official score slip from his clipboard. Without hesitation, he drew a neat line through Lane 14’s competition column, writing a single administrative code across the page before signing his name at the bottom.

"Lane Fourteen is closed for the remainder of the heat," the Range Officer announced over the radio system.

Claire zipped her precision rifle smoothly into its heavy padded drag bag, lifting the shoulder straps over her arms. She adjusted her eye protection, stepping off the green shooting mat onto the gravel path.