The smell of rust and gunpowder hung heavy in the air as Dio knelt beside an upturned oil drum. He wiped the sweat from his brow, the texture of his pistol familiar now, almost comforting. Across from him, a wiry man with a weathered face and a limp adjusted the sight on an old revolver. Sergeant Wiles, the man called himself—a retired cop who'd exchanged duty for anonymity in the slums.
"You're paying me to make you sharp, kid," Wiles grumbled, glancing up with a scowl. "So stop wasting ammo on that same damn tin can."
Dio's jaw tightened, but he didn't snap back. Instead, he raised the pistol again, taking aim at a shattered bottle on a crate twenty paces away. He fired without hesitation. The shot ricocheted off a steel beam and hit the target dead-center.
Wiles whistled low. "Not bad. But fancy tricks won't save you if you can't think under pressure."
Dio ignored him, focusing instead on the subtle tremor in his arm. The passive skill made his aim nearly perfect, but controlling the bullet's curve still demanded finesse. He fired again, this time angling the shot to loop around an obstacle. The bullet arced smoothly, striking another target. His lips curved into a faint smile.
...
The next few days blurred into a relentless routine. Dio handed over a small stash of cash to Wiles each morning and spent the day immersed in drills.
"Breath control!" Wiles barked, pacing behind Dio as he lined up another shot. "You're not just a gunman. You're a surgeon. Inhale, exhale, squeeze the trigger like you're coaxing it."
Dio complied, his focus narrowing to the faint glint of a target across the makeshift range. The shot rang out, striking true.
In the evenings, Dio sent his shadow out to map the area, searching for remaining West Bull members. He practiced syncing his senses with the shadow, learning to trust its vision even when he couldn't see his targets directly.
By the third night, he began combining his skills. Using his shadow as his eyes, Dio fired at targets around corners with his eyes closed tightly, curving bullets to strike hidden marks. Each success sent a thrill through him. He could feel the pieces coming together.
Firing guns with eyes closed was cool. He felt adrenaline doing it.
...
One evening, Dio set up a test of his own. He placed five targets around an abandoned warehouse: one behind a pile of crates, another suspended from a broken light fixture, and a third hidden behind a shattered window. The last two were positioned in the shadows, visible only through his shadow's scouting.
He crouched behind cover, sending his shadow ahead. Its senses fed him a mental map of the targets' locations. Dio exhaled slowly, raised his pistol, and fired.
The first shot ricocheted off a pipe, striking the target behind the crates. The second curved upward, shattering the hanging light fixture and dropping the target it held. The third and fourth shots followed in quick succession, guided by his shadow's observations.
The fifth shot demanded precision. The target was deep in the shadows, obscured entirely from his view. Trusting his shadow's guidance, Dio adjusted his aim and fired. The bullet curved in a tight arc, striking the target cleanly.
Dio lowered the pistol, his heart pounding. The combination of his shadow's scouting and his passive skill felt natural now, almost instinctive.
...
When the night came to confront the last remnants of the West Bull gang, Dio was ready.
He found them holed up in a derelict tenement building, their laughter echoing through the empty halls. Five men, armed and overconfident. Dio's shadow slipped in first, weaving between the cracks and crevices. Through its senses, he saw their positions: two in the main room, one guarding the stairwell, and two more patrolling outside.
Dio moved silently, his pistol steady in his hand with his eyes shut. The first target, the stairwell guard, fell without even seeing him. Dio's shadow guided the shot, the bullet curving to strike the man from behind.
This is called the Art of Firing without looking!
The two patrolling outside were next. Dio waited in the darkness, using his shadow to monitor their movements. When one turned a corner, Dio fired, curving the bullet to hit the second man just as the first stepped into view. A second shot dropped the first before he could react.
Inside, the last two men were scrambling, alerted by the gunfire. Dio sent his shadow ahead, watching as they fumbled to set up a defensive position. He fired twice in quick succession, the bullets curving to strike each man in their cover. The building fell silent.
Dio exhaled, lowering his weapon. The West Bulls were finished. As he stepped out into the night, his shadow trailing behind him, he allowed himself a brief moment of satisfaction.
The Collector was next. And this time, Dio would be ready. It said that the collector has connections to the underground world. Dio felt a little troubled. The underground world in movies was synonymous with extreme danger.