The armory at Camp Horizon sounded like a hundred small clocks—bolts easing forward, springs settling, metal catching a thin smear of oil and then going quiet. Afternoon light fell in a slant across racks of rifles and pelican cases; dust hung in the beam like static.
Staff Sergeant Maya Reyes—callsign Wraith—sat in the far corner on a rubber mat, the Barrett M82A1 stretched along her forearms like a length of dark sky. She moved through her ritual the way surgeons scrub: deliberate, sequenced, nothing wasted. Receiver open. Bolt carrier checked. Lugs inspected. Chamber polished until her reflection returned in a faint, warped oval.
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