I just wanted peace. That’s all. A few minutes where the world wasn’t screaming at me, where the ghosts in my head would just be quiet. I pulled the door open, and the smell hit me first—gun oil, stale coffee, and testosterone. The noise came second. A live demo was cracking off in the back, and the sound of men boasting, trying to one-up each other, was louder than the shots.

I knew the moment I stepped inside. I wasn’t going to get that peace.

My dark brown hair was loose, and my faded green windbreaker felt thin in the air-conditioned room. My sneakers, the ones with the soles peeling at the toes, were silent on the polished floor. I clutched the strap of my gray canvas backpack. It had seen better days. We both had.

I could feel the eyes on me before I heard the voices. They slid off me like I was something unpleasant they’d stepped in.

“You lost, sweetheart?”

I turned. The clerk, a wiry guy with a goatee and a smirk that had been practiced in a mirror, leaned over the counter. “Yoga class is next door. This place sells heavy metal.”

A sharp whistle cut through the air. A guy in a backwards baseball cap, arms crossed like he paid the rent here, looked me up and down. “Canvas bag, worn shoes,” he announced to the room. “Thought this was a thrift store.”

The room snickered. Heads turned. A woman in a tight ponytail, waving a small, fake-looking pistol like it was a designer purse, shook her head with a smile that was all pity and venom. “You’ve wandered into a man’s arena, sweetheart.”

I didn’t flinch. I didn’t speak. I’ve been called worse by men who meant it. This was just… noise. Static. I let my eyes scan the room, slow and steady, taking in the exits, the angles, the faces. Then I locked onto the sniper rifle section.

I walked toward it. My steps were quiet but sure. I’ve learned to move like I’m not there, like I’m crossing a tightrope only I can see.

He stepped in front of me before I reached the case. A burly guy, all leather vest and tattooed skulls. He planted himself like a wall. His voice was loud, meant to carry over the gunfire. “Hey, missy. You’re blocking the view for the real customers.” He jabbed a thumb at my backpack, his lip curling. “What’s in there? Your knitting supplies?”

The crowd roared. Some of them clapped. A performance. I paused, my hands still on the strap, and looked up at him. My face didn’t change, but I held his eyes for just a second longer than he was comfortable with. I saw the flicker. The brief, tiny spark of uncertainty before the bravado slammed back into place.

I stepped around him. Not a word. My sneakers barely whispered against the floor.

His laugh faltered. “Whatever,” he muttered to his buddies, who nudged him to keep going. “She’s nobody.”

The laughter followed me, sharp and cutting, as I reached the glass. Chad, the clerk, trailed behind me, his own sneakers squeaking. “But you think you’re going to buy a Barrett .50? Those things cost more than your whole outfit.”

The backwards-cap guy called out, “Bet she’s just here for a selfie. Got to get those Instagram likes, right?”

The woman with the fake pistol laughed, tossing her head back.

I didn’t turn. I just stood in front of the glass, fingers brushing the strap of my bag. The rifles inside were all menace and precision. They caught the harsh fluorescent light. I didn’t gawk. I didn’t lean in. I just stood there, posture straight but not stiff. I’ve been in rooms like this a hundred times before.

Their chuckles started to thin. My calm was unscripted. I wasn’t playing my part. I wasn’t crying, or running, or yelling. I wasn’t giving them the reaction they craved. The air grew tense.

A woman in a tailored blazer and glossy red nails stepped forward. Her voice dripped with fake sweetness. “Oh, honey, you don’t have to pretend here. We all know you’re just browsing.” She tilted her head, her smile as sharp as a blade. She held up her phone and snapped a photo of my windbreaker. “This will be cute for my story. ‘Lost shopper at the gun shop.'”

The crowd chuckled. More phones came out. Flashes popped.

My hand tightened on my backpack strap. Just enough. I kept my eyes on the rifles. The woman’s smile wavered. My silence was a vacuum, and it was starting to pull the air from her lungs. The laughter died, replaced by an uneasy rustle.

Chad tapped the counter with a pen, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “So, what do you want, lady? Something shiny to impress your friends?”

My eyes flicked to him. Then back to the rifles. My voice was soft, almost swallowed by the noise, but it was clear.

“Show me the custom MRAI Ghost Edition. The unreleased version.”

It was like a glass shattering. The room’s rhythm broke.

Chad’s smirk froze, stuck on his face. The backwards-cap guy literally choked on his energy drink, coughing into his fist. The woman with the fake pistol lowered it, her eyebrows halfway to her hairline.

An older man in the corner, his face carved with lines, spoke up. His voice was gravelly, slow. “What? That model’s only known to Black Ops personnel.”

Chad stammered, his voice cracking. “I… I saw one like that in the Eastern Zone… eight years ago,” the old shooter added, more to himself than to me.

I didn’t blink. I tapped the glass again, my finger light, but deliberate. “So, yes or no?”

The manager, a stocky guy with a buzzcut and a permanent scowl, pushed through from the back. He shot Chad a look that could kill, then unlocked the vault behind the counter. He didn’t say a word. He pulled out a rifle. Matte black. Sleek. Its scope looked like it could see into next week. No one in that room had ever seen one on display.

As he set it on the counter, a teenager with a vape pen dangling from his lips pushed forward. “Yo, no way she even knows what that is,” he said, high and brash. He pointed at my sneakers. “Look at those kicks. Bet she can’t even afford the cleaning kit for that thing.”

His friends howled.

My hands stilled on the counter. I tilted my head, just enough to catch his eye, and my lips curved into the faintest of smiles. Not warm, not cold. Just… there.

The teenager’s laughter caught in his throat. His vape pen hovered. My gaze held him. I didn’t say a word, but the room suddenly felt smaller. The air felt tighter.

Chad tried to laugh it off, but it came out forced. “Okay, fine. You know the name of a fancy gun. But can you even hold that thing? It weighs over 10 kilos.”

The backwards-cap guy, now holding a rifle of his own, gave it a little toss toward me. “Careful. Might snap your wrist.”

I caught it. One-handed. The motion was so smooth it looked rehearsed. The rifle didn’t wobble. It didn’t dip. I held it steady, the weight an old, familiar comfort.

The room went quiet. The kind of quiet where you can hear your own pulse.

Chad’s laugh died. The backwards-cap guy opened his mouth, then shut it.

I set the rifle on the counter, my movements precise, almost gentle.

“Go ahead, disassemble it,” Chad said, trying to get his power back. “Bet you don’t know how.”

My fingers moved. They knew this script. Eight seconds. The rifle was in pieces. Pins, screws, barrel, all laid out in perfect order. A puzzle solved in a single breath.

A man in a crisp polo shirt leaned over the counter, his hair gelled. “Impressive trick,” he said, clapping slowly, each clap a sharp, deliberate sound. “But let’s be real. You probably watched a YouTube tutorial last night, right?” He winked at the crowd. They laughed, relieved to have the tension broken.

I didn’t look at him. I slid a single screw back into place, my finger steady. I paused, adjusting it with a flick of my wrist. A surgical motion.

The man’s clapping slowed. His smile slipped. The crowd’s laughter faded.

The woman with the fake pistol whispered, “Who even does that?” Her voice had a tremor in it.

I started reassembling the rifle, hand over hand, the same calm precision. But then I paused. I reached into my backpack and pulled out a simple paperclip. I pressed it lightly against the receiver, my eyes narrowing as I studied the mechanism.

The crowd leaned in, confused.

“This bolt is .03mm loose,” I said. My voice was soft, but it cut through the room. “In sub-zero conditions, it veers off target.”

The mercenary in the corner, the grizzled one with a scar across his knuckles, muttered, “How the hell does she know that?”

I glanced at him. My expression was blank, but my eyes were sharp. “Because I used it to hit a moving target from the top of Sun La Peak. In level seven wind.”

The words landed like a grenade. Heavy and final. No one laughed. No one moved. The manager’s jaw tightened. He was starting to see something he wished he hadn’t.

A woman with a sleek bob and diamond earrings stepped forward, her voice a whip-crack. “Okay, so you’ve got some skills. But let’s not get carried away. This is a gun shop, not a circus.” She gestured at my backpack. “What’s next? Pulling a rabbit out of that thing?”

I zipped my backpack closed. The sound was sharp in the quiet. I slung it over one shoulder. My fingers lingered on the zipper, tracing the worn fabric. For a split second, my eyes flicked to a small patch on the bag. A faded emblem, barely visible. Shaped like a viper’s head.

The woman’s smirk faltered. She’d seen the patch, even if she didn’t know what it meant.

The mercenary stepped closer, his boots heavy on the floor. “Sun La… That was what? A decade ago?” His voice was gruff, but there was something new in it. Respect. Or maybe fear.

I didn’t answer. I finished reassembling the rifle, sliding the last piece into place with a soft, final click.

The backwards-cap guy chuckled nervously, trying to break the tension. “Okay, so you know some trivia. Doesn’t mean you can shoot.”

The manager, sensing a chance to take back control, gestured toward the outdoor range. “Let’s see it, then. There’s a coin out there, 150 meters. No one’s hit it. Ever.”

The crowd parted as I picked up the rifle and walked outside. The gravel crunched under my sneakers. The air was sharp with gunpowder and dust. A single coin dangled from a string, glinting in the late afternoon sun.

The backwards-cap guy shouted, “If she hits it, I’ll mop this place with my tongue!” The laughter was thinner now. Less sure.

As I walked to the range, a man in a camouflage jacket called out, “Hey, little lady! Don’t trip over that rifle. It’s bigger than you are!” His buddies roared.

I didn’t break stride. I shifted the rifle to my other hand, a fluid motion, like it weighed nothing. The man’s laughter trailed off.

I set my backpack down. I adjusted my grip. The crowd’s chatter faded. Their eyes were locked on me, waiting for me to fail. But there was something in the way I stood—feet planted, shoulders relaxed—that made the air feel tight, like the moment before a lightning strike.

I stepped up to the firing line. The rifle rested lightly in my hands. I didn’t adjust the scope. I didn’t take a practice aim.

I aimed. Two seconds.

Breathe.

Squeeze.

The shot cracked through the air, sharp and clean. The coin split in half. The two pieces spun as they fell to the ground.

The crowd went silent. The kind of silence that feels like the world is holding its breath.

Chad’s mouth hung open. The woman with the fake pistol dropped it. The mercenary stared, his scarred knuckles white.

I didn’t smile. I didn’t gloat. I just walked back to the counter and set the rifle down, placing it exactly where it had been. Leaving no trace.

A young woman in a pink hoodie pushed forward, her phone already out. “Okay, that was cute. But let’s see you do it again,” she said, her voice high and mocking. “One shot doesn’t mean anything. Probably just luck.”

I didn’t look at her. I reached into my backpack, pulled out a small, worn cloth, and began to wipe my hands. Slowly. Deliberately. The cloth had a faint stain on it, dark and irregular. Blood that had never quite washed out.

The young woman’s phone dipped. Her confidence wavered.

The gunsmith, an older man with thick glasses who had been quiet until now, stepped forward. His eyes were locked on my hands. “Someone tuned a rifle just like that,” he said, his voice barely a whisper. “At the Ghost Viper outpost. Same grip. Same care.” He squinted at my hand, at the faint scar shaped like an arrow across my knuckles.

The room went rigid.

The mercenary’s voice broke the silence, low and shaky. “She’s Ghost Number 17.”

My eyes met his. Calm. Steady. “I came here for peace,” I said softly. “But if needed… I still shoot with precision from 400 meters.”

It wasn’t a threat. It was a fact. It landed like a blade.

The backwards-cap guy took a step back, his energy drink slipping from his hand.

A man in a sleek black jacket, his watch glinting, leaned toward the manager. “You’re really letting her touch that rifle? She doesn’t even look like she can afford the ammo.”

My hand paused. I tilted my head, met his eyes, and adjusted the scope’s dial with a single, precise twist. The click was soft, but it echoed in the silence like a door locking shut.

The man’s chuckle died.

Chad, desperate, stepped up with his clipboard. “Hold on! Where’s your ID? You can’t test fire without registration!”

I reached into my backpack and pulled out a worn, nearly blank card. No photo, no name. Just a faded emblem and a string of numbers.

Chad snorted, holding it up. “What’s this? A library card?”

The manager raised his voice. “No documents, no access to high-grade weapons.”

I slipped the card back into my bag. I zipped it. I started walking toward the door.

“Hey, don’t walk away yet!” a man with a beer belly and a faded army cap boomed. “You think you’re some kind of hot shot?” He jabbed a finger at my backpack. “Bet that thing’s full of nothing but cheap makeup and dreams.”

I stopped. My hand on the door handle. I turned, just enough to look at him. My eyes were calm, but they held a weight he couldn’t understand. I let go of the handle. I opened my backpack, pulled out a small metal case no bigger than a cigarette pack, and set it on the counter. The click of metal on glass was the only sound.

The man’s face fell. His finger dropped.

The door swung open.

A man in a black suit and dark glasses stepped inside. The air in the room shifted, like a storm rolling in. He was tall, his face unreadable. He scanned the crowd, then walked straight to me.

He leaned in and whispered, “Confirmation code 870. Your next mission begins tonight.”

Then he did something that made the room freeze. He lowered his head and placed his hand to his chest.

It was the Ghost Viper salute. A sign reserved for legends. For ghosts who don’t exist on paper.

Chad dropped his clipboard. The backwards-cap guy’s second energy drink hit the floor. The woman with the fake pistol pressed herself against the wall, her eyes wide.

As I walked to the door with the man in the suit, a woman in a red leather jacket called out, her voice sharp with desperation. “But… you think you’re some secret agent now? This isn’t a movie!”

I paused at the door. I reached into my pocket, pulled out a single, polished bullet casing, and set it on the counter next to the metal case. It was old, its surface scratched. A memento.

The woman’s forced laugh stopped.

The room stayed silent as I walked out. The man in the black suit followed like a shadow. They just stood there, staring at the door.

Outside, the gravel crunched under my sneakers. I didn’t look back. I opened the door to the black SUV and slid inside, my backpack resting on my lap. The man got in beside me. The car pulled away, silent and smooth, disappearing into the dusk.

They’ll talk about it. Chad will get fired. The backwards-cap guy will find his video of me going viral for all the wrong reasons, his sponsors dropping him. The women who laughed will find their social circles shrinking. They think they saw something out of a movie.

They didn’t.

They just saw a woman in a faded windbreaker who wanted a moment of peace, and who carries the weight of places like Sun La Peak in the scar on her hand. They saw a ghost. And ghosts leave a mark that never fades.