Jack stepped off the line, rifle slung, boots dragging through the red-clay dust. His ears still rang. Not from gunfire—but from the silence of hitting almost nothing. Again. Again. Again.
He passed the score sheet table without stopping.
"Hey, LCpl Soren."
He turned. Staff Sergeant Carwin—range safety NCO—held a clipboard under one arm and a half-drunk bottle of water in the other. Sunglasses hid the eyes, but the body language was unmistakable: calm, steady, but watching.
Jack came to a halt.
"You wanna explain what happened out there?" Carwin asked, voice low but firm.
Jack shrugged. "Didn't make my hits."
"That's not what I asked."
Jack looked past him. "Just wasn't locked in, Staff Sergeant."
Carwin didn't move. "You're just back from the sandbox, right?"
"Yes, Staff Sergeant."
There was a beat. Just wind through pine needles and the sharp scent of CLP.
"You're carrying some shit," Carwin said, quieter now. "I get it. But you don't get to carry it onto my firing line."
"Yes, Staff Sergeant."
"You got a thirty-four."
"Yes, Staff Sergeant."
"That's unacceptable. You know that."
Jack met his gaze. "Yes, Staff Sergeant."
Another pause.
"You planning to square that away?"
Jack didn't answer.
Carwin's voice didn't rise, but it dropped an octave. "Range ain't a therapy session, Lance Corporal. If you need to talk to somebody, talk to somebody. But don't bring ghosts onto my deck."
Jack gave a slow nod. "Understood, Staff Sergeant."
Carwin studied him another beat. "Grab your gear. Don't wander far. We'll debrief at sixteen-hundred."
Jack saluted, mechanically. "Aye, Staff Sergeant."
Carwin turned, already calling the next name.
Jack didn't wait. He walked toward the edge of the trees, not running—but definitely not lingering. No one stopped him. A few other shooters gave him sidelong glances, but none said a word.
He crossed into the sparse pine, the buzz of cicadas rising like static. His boots sank into loamy soil under the dry needles. The deeper he went, the quieter it got.
When he couldn't hear the range anymore, he stopped.
Dropped onto a log. Pulled off his helmet. Lit the last busted cigarette in his pocket with a Zippo engraved Semper Fi, Bitch. He didn't even remember who gave it to him.
The cigarette burned hot and fast.
He stared up through the trees.
And the sky…
The sky wasn't right.
It shimmered—like heat off a barrel. Then rippled. Bent.
One cloud sheared straight in half—no sound, just a slicing ripple like pressure blowing out a pane of glass.
Jack stood slowly.
The air smelled wrong.
He grabbed his rifle.
A sound rose—not loud, but deep. Like metal groaning under pressure. Like the guts of the world grinding into place.
Then—FLASH.
Everything white.
Then—
Nothing.
Just black.