Chapter 2: The Underdog Who Wouldn't Miss
"Lane seven," the marshal said.
Evelyn nodded.
Lane seven stood between two decorated competitors.
Both men had custom jackets and polished cases.
Both looked at her like she had entered the wrong building.
Logan stretched his shoulders.
Then he turned toward the nearest camera.
"Nationals always lets one underdog in," he said.
The reporter smiled.
"Think she has a chance?"
Logan tilted his head.
"Everyone has a chance to embarrass themselves."
The crowd laughed again.
Evelyn looked at the targets downrange.
Not at Logan.
Not at the cameras.
Not at the people laughing.
Her eyes stayed flat and steady.
Gray-blue.
Cold, but not empty.
The marshal stepped behind the line.
"Competitors, prepare for qualification round."
Evelyn loaded with slow precision.
Her fingers moved without wasted motion.
Logan noticed that.
For the first time, his smile softened.
Only for a second.
Then he looked away.
The buzzer sounded.
The first round began.
Targets lifted in staggered intervals.
Steel plates swung, paused, dipped, and vanished.
The crowd watched Logan.
He moved fast.
Clean shots.
Confident rhythm.
Ten hits.
Then twelve.
Then fourteen.
The crowd clapped before he finished.
His final target spun with a bright metallic crack.
"Fifteen!" the announcer shouted.
"Perfect opening from Logan Hayes!"
The crowd erupted.
Logan lifted one hand like the arena belonged to him.
Then lane seven fired.
One shot.
Then another.
Then a third.
No flashiness.
No wasted motion.
Her rifle barely seemed to move.
Steel rang clean downrange.
The scoreboard blinked.
FIFTEEN.
For two seconds, nobody reacted.
The announcer hesitated.
"Lane seven also records a perfect opening."
Logan turned his head.
Evelyn lowered her rifle.
Her left wrist rested along the stock.
The little star mark showed again.
Arthur Bennett looked down briefly.
His brow tightened.
Then someone beside him asked a question.
He turned away.
Logan stepped back from his lane.
"Not bad," he said.
Evelyn began clearing her rifle.
"Thank you."
He smiled without warmth.
"Lucky rhythm."
"Maybe."
The word landed softly.
That bothered him more than an insult.
The second qualification round narrowed the field.
The targets moved faster.
Wind machines pushed unpredictable bursts across the range.
Competitors began missing.
One man cursed under his breath.
Another shook his head and requested a sight check.
Logan scored fourteen.
The arena still cheered.
Evelyn scored fourteen too.
The announcer gave her name again.
This time, a few people clapped.
May you like
Not many.
Just enough to annoy Logan.
