CHAPTER 3: The Past They Tried to Erase
The video spread before dawn.
Not because it was posted officially.
But because someone in the crowd had recorded the shot.
And once it hit the internet, it stopped belonging to the shooting range entirely.
It belonged to everyone.
By morning, it had already been clipped, slowed down, analyzed, argued over, and called fake in at least twenty languages.
“Impossible angle.”
“No recoil error.”
“Edited footage.”
“Staged marketing.”
But the problem was simple:
Too many witnesses were saying the same thing.
And worse—
They were all saying it confidently.
At 7:42 a.m., the competitor finally saw it.
She was still in bed when her phone began vibrating nonstop.
Messages.
Tags.
Mentions.
Her name attached to words like:
humiliation
janitor shooter
perfect shot exposed
She opened the video.
Watched it once.
Then again.
And then stopped at the moment she smiled before the first shot.
That smile looked different now.
Smaller.
Less certain.
Like it belonged to someone who had never been corrected before.
Her phone rang.
Her sponsor.
She answered quickly.
“This is being blown out of proportion—”
“We’re terminating the contract,” the voice interrupted.
Silence.
“What?”
“We can’t associate with this situation.”
“You’re joking.”
“We’re not.”
Click.
Then another call immediately after.
Then another.
By the fourth, she stopped answering.
Because she already understood what was happening.
It wasn’t about the shot anymore.
It was about the story.
And she had just become the wrong character in it.
Across the city, in a quiet office without branding or signage, a man watched the same video.
He didn’t react like the others.
No shock.
No disbelief.
Only recognition.
He paused the frame right before the trigger pull.
Zoomed in on her stance.
Her shoulder alignment.
Her breathing control.
Then he exhaled slowly.
“…So you’re still alive,” he murmured.
He reached for a phone.
And made a call.
“Prepare the registry,” he said. “She’s been found.”
A pause.
“Yes,” he added. “The Silver Line Academy.”
He hung up.
And for the first time in years, stood up from his chair.
The janitor did not arrive at work the next day.
The shooting range was already surrounded by reporters when the doors opened.
The referee stood at the entrance, refusing entry to anyone who didn’t have clearance.
Inside, the competitors argued.
Spectators demanded explanations.
And the competitor from the previous day sat alone in the corner, replaying the moment over and over again in her mind.
Not the shot.
The calm before it.
That was what bothered her most.
Because confidence could be faked.
Skill could be trained.
But that level of calm?
That kind of silence?
May you like
ThatThat kind of silence?
That came from something else entirely.
