The sound of gunfire rang out in the isolated, dimly lit shooting range. Pavel Putin's arm held steady as he emptied round after round into the targets in front of him. His sharp gaze followed each bullet's trajectory with precision, striking the center of the targets with unrelenting accuracy. His face, usually composed, twisted with the barest hint of frustration. This was supposed to be a way to blow off steam—something mechanical, something that required focus. But no matter how well he shot, the tension in his chest refused to dissipate.
Click. Click. The magazine emptied, but he still stood there, holding the pistol as if it could somehow give him answers. Finally, he lowered the gun and exhaled deeply, as though trying to push the weight off his shoulders.
A small, almost imperceptible knock echoed in the private shooting range, but Pavel didn't turn around. He knew who it was. Only one person dared to disturb him here.
