The air at Camp Lejeune smelled like rust and swamp rot.
Jack Soren pulled the charging handle on his M4 and let it snap forward with a familiar metallic slap. The rifle felt light in his hands—too light. His gloves were soaked already. Coastal North Carolina humidity didn't care what month it was. Sweat pooled under his plate carrier, traced the groove of his spine, and soaked into the waistband of his fatigues.
"On the line!" a range coach barked. "Eyes downrange!"
Jack stepped forward. Clay dust clung to his boots, already crusted red from the truck ride over. His mags rattled. The wind dragged across the berm in short, uneven gusts, like something was catching its breath out there.
To his left, two boots whispered, not subtle enough.
"That's him."
"Fallujah guy?"
"No shit. Dude lit up a fuckin' street and walked out clean."
Jack didn't flinch. He didn't care. Let them talk. Let them guess.
He dropped to prone, sighted in, and waited for the line to go hot. His trigger finger hovered, tension twitching in the second knuckle. The stubby range towers loomed behind them—sun-bleached, faceless.
A voice cut through the air like a rifle crack.
"Range going hot in five!"
Jack exhaled. His heart thumped once. He focused on the front sight post. Nothing else. No war. No screaming. No sand. Just the range. Just the rifle.
"Fire!"
He squeezed.
The first round went wide.
The second clipped dirt.
The third—he didn't even see it.
It was like Fallujah again.
But not the firefights. The after. The silence that wrapped around his head like a wet towel. The heat that never left. The way blood baked into the sleeves of a blouse, even after you washed it five times.
Jack squeezed again.
Miss.
He stopped breathing. Didn't blink. Didn't curse.
He just fired until the mag clicked dry.