96x -

The range officer looked at the timer and then at the targets. "Clean run. That is a new stage record."

"We have ten minutes left on the clock," his producer whispered through the glass, her eyes shiny with held-back tears.

The neon sign above the console buzzed, casting a soft red glow over Leo’s worn notebook. For twenty years, his voice had filled the cars, bedrooms, and late-night garages of the city. He was the voice of , the last independent bastion of grunge, punk, and pure alternative rock. The range officer looked at the timer and

Corporate suits had finally bought out the frequency. At midnight, the signal would cut, and the raw guitars would be replaced by a sanitized, AI-generated pop playlist.

The barked with a heavy, satisfying recoil. Marcus tracked the front sight as it snapped back into perfect alignment after every shot. Ding. Ding. Ding. The steel plates danced and fell. He moved through the barriers, his focus narrowing down to a single point of absolute precision. The neon sign above the console buzzed, casting

The desert heat was oppressive, making the air shimmer above the iron targets of the USPSA competition. Marcus wiped the sweat from his eyes and adjusted the grip on his prized possession: a completely custom-built Performance race gun chambered in .40 Smith & Wesson.

With a final double-tap on the furthest paper target, he cleared the course and dropped his empty magazine. Corporate suits had finally bought out the frequency

Marcus smiled, looking down at the smoking barrel of his custom machine. They said a .40 caliber was too rowdy for a race gun, but the had just proved them all wrong.