The Ghost of the Shooting Range
The Ghost of the Shooting Range
Chapter 1: The Boy
That morning, the National Shooting Championship felt different.
Not because of the weather. Not because of the crowd.
But because of him.
A young boy stood at the entrance. Worn gray t-shirt. Faded jeans. Dirty shoes that looked like he had just run through a flood.
He carried one rifle.
No bag. No coach. No name on his chest.
Just him.
And the weapon in his hands.
"What is that?"
The first voice came from a group of athletes near the scoreboard. They were eating sandwiches and laughing.
"Is he a contestant?"
"Look at his shirt... seriously?"
Laughter exploded.
A girl in a national team uniform even pulled out her phone. "This is going on TikTok," she said, giggling.
The boy didn't turn around.
He kept walking.
Chapter 2: A Name Without a Face
"His name is registered."
The registration officer — a middle-aged woman with glasses — pointed at her computer screen.
Javier, the defending champion, leaned against the table. He smirked.
"This will be over fast."
Javier wasn't a bad person. But he knew who his competitors were this year. National athletes. Professional coaches. Rifles worth as much as luxury cars.
Not this boy.
Not the boy in the worn gray t-shirt.
"This should be interesting," Javier said, crossing his arms.
He didn't know.
He didn't know how interesting this day was about to become.
Chapter 3: That Stance
The boy walked to lane number 7.
No ear protection. No safety glasses. No weird rituals like other athletes who took dozens of deep breaths before touching their rifles.
He just...
...raised the gun.
And everyone stopped laughing.
Because the way he held that rifle — it wasn't amateur. It wasn't beginner.
It was military.
Perfect. Frozen. Like a statue carved from ice.
The crowd's laughter died in their throats.
Across the venue, an elderly referee was writing notes. He wore thick glasses and a gray uniform with medals pinned to his chest. He had seen everything in fifty years of shooting.
But when he looked up and saw that stance...
His pen fell.
Clink.
The sound echoed through the sudden silence.
"No way..." he whispered.
His hands started shaking.
"That stance..."
Chapter 4: The Trigger
The boy's finger touched the trigger.
Everything went quiet.
Not the quiet of a library. Not the quiet of a sleeping house.
The quiet of death.
The referee's eyes widened. His mind flashed back — forty years ago. A war. A shooter. A ghost story that soldiers whispered at night.
"It can't be..."
The boy's finger pulled.
BOOM.
Chapter 5: The Tattoo
The bullet tore through the center of the target.
Perfect shot.
But no one was looking at the target anymore.
Because when the boy's sleeve shifted during the recoil...
Everyone saw it.
A small eagle tattoo on his inner wrist.
The elderly referee turned pale white.
His lips trembled.
"That tattoo..."
His voice cracked.
"Impossible..."
He stumbled backward, knocking over a chair. People turned to stare at him — the veteran referee who had never once lost his composure in fifty years.
Now he looked like he had seen a ghost.
Javier stepped forward. His smirk was gone.
For the first time in his career, the champion looked... scared.
"Who is he?" Javier whispered.
No one answered.
Because no one knew.
To Be Continued...
The eagle tattoo. The military stance. The veteran referee's fear.
Who is the boy in the gray shirt?
And why did the oldest man in the stadium look like he had just seen someone return from the dead?
Chapter 6 Preview (Part 2):
The referee grabbed Javier's arm. His fingers were ice cold.
"Cancel the match," he said.
Javier frowned. "What? Why?"
The old man looked at the boy. Then back at Javier.
"Because that stance... that tattoo..."
He swallowed hard.
"That boy killed my entire squad forty years ago."
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