The gun range room is silent, except for the faint buzz of the overhead fluorescent lights.

For this final test, we're handling a gun. I've never liked handling guns after a single bullet---a precise one straight to the heart claimed my father's life.

I stand at attention, my eyes locked forward on Pacifier West. His sharp voice echoes in the room as he addresses us, the remaining candidates. Only 20. Out of hundreds who began, only we remain.

Beside me, Tonya stands as still as a statue, her focus as unshakable as always.

I resist the urge to turn my head but let my eyes flicker to the edges of my peripheral vision. The other candidates stand in two neat rows, rigid and quiet, though the weight of the room feels far from calm.

That's when I saw him.

157.

The sight of him sends a sharp twist of heat through my chest. He's standing a few rows down, his head tilted slightly as though he doesn't care about the tension in the room. He hasn't changed since the first test: arrogant, smug, and overconfident. I can still see mocking smile in my head when he thought he'd eliminated me.

Beside him is her-the girl who bumped into Tonya and me during the second test. She's slender, with quick, darting green eyes, and even in this silence, she has the look of someone always calculating.

They're standing close, a group of six. A few others I don't immediately recognize are clustered with them, but it's clear they're all together. All of them have one thing in common. They're all Veileborne.

Then someone grabs my attention.

A boy with dark eyes and a sharp jawline from that group.

His face sparks a memory, a fleeting sense of recognition that vanishes before   I can grasp it, leaving me with an unsettling sense of deja vu.

Where did I see him before?

Pacifier West steps forward, his voice cutting through the stillness. "This is your final test. Precision and composure will determine your worth."

The room grows impossibly quiet.

West gestures toward the firing range. "Disassemble your weapon. Reassemble it. Then, you'll demonstrate your accuracy."

The candidates break up and move toward the tables where Glocks await us. I follow Tonya and settle for the table next to her.

Slow is steady. Steady is fast, I say to myself. As I grip the gun, the weight feels heavier than it should, always feeling unnatural in my hands even when I go hunting with Uncle Sirius.

I disassemble the gun, placing each piece down with care. This is the easy part. The hard part is next. I take a slow, steadying breath, bracing myself as I reach for the first piece, the weight of the test harder than I want to admit.

I adjust the barrel, angling it slightly before sliding it into place. It clicks in with ease.

Okay. Now the spring.

I struggle with the spring, as it refuses to slot into place. Frustration rises, but before I can fumble further, Tonya's quiet voice cuts through.

"Push it in with your thumb, then tilt it forward slightly."

I follow her advice, and the spring clicks into place.

When it's time to load the bullets, my nerves return. The rounds refuse to slide in smoothly, and I feel panic creeping in.

"Angle the round as you press it in," Tonya whispers again, her focus never leaving her gun.

This time, the bullets slide into the magazine easily. I glance at her in quiet gratitude, but she's already moved on, her hands assembling her own Glock with precision.

"Step back," West orders, as i just finish assembling my weapon. "Those who failed to assemble on time may leave the room upon disqualification."

I swallow hard as four candidates leave the room. That could have been me. I push any further doubt aside, reminding myself that I deserve to be here.

The rest of us are led to the adjacent firing range. The targets are lined up-silhouettes with bright red bull's-eyes.

"You have 10 rounds," West announces. "Hit the bull's-eye or get as close as possible. Accuracy and speed will determine your score. Begin."

The sound of gunfire erupts as the candidates begin shooting. My hands are slick with sweat as I grip the Glock. I take a deep breath and fire, the recoil jolting up my arms, and I hear it all over again. I see my father, eyes wide, falling back, the Veileborne soldier's aim dead-on.

I fire again, adjusting my stance. This time, the shot lands closer. Out of the 10 rounds, I managed to hit the bull's-eye four. The rest scattered around the center.

West walks down the line, clipboard in hand, reviewing each of our performances. I swallow hard, fighting the lump in my throat. I'm a failure--something my father wasn't. I come back to the present when Pacifier West is in front of Tonya. "You managed to hit the bull's-eye seven times." He proceeds to scan her wrist for her number and runs a scanning device over it which beeps into life.

He reaches me, and his piercing gaze holds mine. "You've scored an average score below 5."

He scans my wrist and the beeping sound goes off.

I am sure I've failed.

What will I say to Uncle Sirius?

West moves on, but his words settle into my chest like a stone. The word rattles around in my mind, sharp and heavy. I glance at my target, a mix of triumph and unease tightening my chest. Four bull's eyes gleam like tiny victories in the center, but the rest of my shots scatter outward, not far from the center but enough to betray my lack of precision.

Something tells me the outcome of this test is bad. He sounds like he is going to fail me.

I glance toward the tables at the edge of the range where the failed candidates left. I march toward an empty workstation and load my Glock with the 10 rounds, not caring about the attention I'm about to draw. I'll have to fix this.

"Aria, what are you doing?" Tonya's voice hisses, but I don't stop. I can feel everyone's eyes on me now but I don't care.

I raise the gun, as the image of that cold Veilborne soldier infiltrates my mind. The way his hand didn't even tremble when he pulled the trigger. Now I won't tremble when I pull this trigger. He is the bull's-eye.

The first shot rings out, sharp and final. It hits the bull's-eye.

I grit my teeth and adjust, imagining his face in the target. This time I look into his merciless eyes that haunted my nights. Another shot.

Bull's-eye.

And then I fall into the rhythm.

Shot after shot, the recoil becomes part of me, the Glock an extension of my arm. Each bullet punches through the center, creating a perfect cluster. No scatter, no inconsistency-just precision.

When I lower the gun, my heart is pounding, my breaths shallow. Ten shots, all perfectly grouped in the bull's-eye.

A slow clap sounds from behind me, and it's only from Tonya. I whirl around to find. His standing at the end of the room, leaning against the wall with the clipboard tucked under one arm. His expression is unreadable, his piercing gaze locked on me.

"Impressive," he says, his tone calm, measured. For a moment, I think I've redeemed myself, proven what I'm capable of.

But then he straightens and adds, "But your results will still be judged on your first attempt."

The words hit me like a slap, my confidence faltering as quickly as it rose.

West continues, "In the Chamber, you don't get second chances. Your first shot is what counts. Remember that."

I stand still for a moment, the weight of the gun heavy in my hand, its cold metal biting into my palm. Then, without a word, I place it down and return to my station. My heart pounds in my chest, each beat echoing my uncertainty.

When Pacifier West finishes assessing everyone, he steps forward, his sharp gaze cutting through the room. "Those who failed," he announces, his voice crisp and cold, "may leave the Chambers headquarters. For good."

The silence thickens as he pauses, letting the weight of his words settle. "Those who passed will leave the headquarters to say your goodbyes to your families. Your names will be announced tomorrow at the public ceremony in the town square."

He surveys us one last time, his expression unreadable. "As soon as I leave this room, your fate will be determined. Passed or failed."

With that, he strides out of the room, the heavy door clicking shut behind him.

The chamber is suddenly filled with the restless shuffling of feet and hushed breaths. No one speaks. Instead, we all stare at the numbers inked on the backs of our hands, the final sign of our standing.

The first gasp cuts through the quiet like a blade. A girl near the back stares at her hand in horror. Her number is gone. The realization spreads like wildfire as others glance at their hands, some finding relief, others despair.

One by one, those whose numbers vanish begin to leave, their steps slow and defeated. The weight of failure hangs over them like a shadow.

I glance down at my hand, my heart hammering in my chest. The ink is still there, bold and unyielding. I passed.

Relief and disbelief hit me all at once, but I don't dare show it. Around me, those who remain exchange wary glances, but no one speaks. The room grows quieter as the failed trickle out, leaving only those whose numbers remain.

Tonya rushes toward me, pulling my wrist and her eyes light up when she sees my number.

"156!" Tonya bursts through the remaining candidates, her eyes wide with disbelief and joy. , her face breaking into a grin that somehow feels like a release of all the pent-up tension.

"We made it! We made it!" she screams, pulling me into a tight hug.

I blink, momentarily dazed, as the reality of her words sinks in. She's right-we made it.

I laugh, breathless and disbelieving, pulling back to meet her gaze. For a moment, everything else fades, and it's just us.

"We did," I say, my voice low but full of relief.

Tonya bounces on her heels, grinning like she won the war herself. "We're in this together!"