Code Name: Ember

The weapons range smells like oil and sweat—metal and gunpowder hanging in the air like a second skin. Rows of trainees line up at their stations, the buzz of electric targets humming through the walls.

I strap into my gear and retrieve my firearm from the locker. Serial: 0405–EM. Temporary ID.

"All units—begin in five," a voice calls over the comms.

It's Agent Locke. Lead instructor for firearms and hand-to-hand. Retired field agent, one eye gone, replaced with a mechanical optic that clicks softly when it moves. He doesn't tolerate errors. Or hesitation.

As I slide the mag into place, I feel someone step into my periphery.

"Mind if I run your lane?" Calista asks, already locking and loading.

We usually train apart, but today I nod. She steps in beside me, calm and coiled like a spring.

Locke's voice cuts through again. "You've got sixty seconds. Head, heart, kneecap. Disarm and disable. Five targets. Don't make them scream."

I raise my weapon.

The targets pop out of the wall—human silhouettes with highlighted joints and vitals. I move without thought.

Bang. Bang. Bang.

Heart. Shoulder. Right femur.

Quick shift. Kneecap. Neck.

The last target takes an extra quarter second. My trigger finger hesitates—slightly.

"Faster, 0405," Locke barks. His voice bites like wire.

I fire.

After the final round, smoke curls from the muzzle. I lower the gun, exhale through my nose, and glance at Calista. She's already holstered, lips pressed into a smug line.

Locke steps onto the range, his boots echoing.

He moves straight to me.

"You hesitated," he says flatly.

"One-tenth of a second," I reply.

"That's how long it takes to bleed out."

He studies me with that artificial eye, as if peeling my thoughts apart.

"Why?"

"The angle was tight. Risk of ricochet. Calculated pause."

"Too calculated," he says. "Don't get clever. Get fast."

He walks past me, but stops at the end of the line. "Do it again."