Alexander's POV
The air inside the Bryde Bolt Shooting Centre felt heavy. Not hot, just quiet. Too quiet. Like if someone coughed, everything would fall apart.
I'm Alexander Blackwood. I'm seventeen. And right now, my whole world was just one thing: the gun in my right hand, the sight at the tip, and the tiny black dot ten meters away. That dot felt like my whole future.
The American commentators called me the "Dark Horse." I was the kid nobody expected. No big name. No big country backing me. But somehow, I'd torn through the Olympic qualifiers like it was nothing.
I breathed in slowly, the way I'd been trained. I didn't look at the scoreboard, but I could feel everyone watching me. For eight rounds straight, I was perfect. Almost scary perfect.
10.6.
10.7.
10.9.
People said I was calm, like I didn't feel pressure. Like I was born this way. The truth was, shooting made everything slow down. My heart. My thoughts. Everything.
Then round nine happened.
One stupid thought slipped in: I'm actually going to win gold.
That was the mistake. In shooting, the second you think about winning, you lose focus. My finger moved just a bit too fast.
9.2.
The crowd gasped, loud and sharp. It hit me hard. Just like that, I dropped to second place.
Now it was the final shot.
My heart was going crazy in my chest. Sweat ran down my back. My vision wasn't as clear anymore.
"Steady," I whispered to myself. I was begging, not calming down.
On the side, my dad stood there. Oliver Blackwood. He wasn't just my dad; he was the reason I was here. He put a gun in my hand before I even knew what pressure was. He timed my pulse every morning. He planned my meals like a science experiment.
He didn't look nervous. He looked hungry. Like this win belonged to him too.
I lifted the gun again. It felt heavier than ever. My arm shook a little. When I looked through the sight, the target wasn't sharp anymore. Just a blur of white and black.
Don't think about the gold.
Don't think about the cameras.
Don't think about Dad.
I closed my eyes for a second. I knew that was risky, especially in the final round.
For just one heartbeat, the big, high-tech arena felt far away. The bright lights above buzzed, but not like normal electricity. It sounded more like someone scratching a pen on thick paper.
Then I opened my eyes.
The doubt was gone.
The fear was gone.
I didn't just see the target anymore. It felt like it belonged to me. I wasn't just a kid in a competition. I felt like this was what I was meant to do. Like this moment had been waiting for me.
One second left on the clock.
I pulled the trigger.
Pop.
The sound was small. Almost nothing.
But what it meant was huge.
The scoreboard lit up right away.
10.9.
My dad jumped over the barrier like it didn't exist. Security tried to stop him, but he didn't care. He grabbed me and hugged me so hard I could barely breathe.
He was crying. Not quite crying. Loud, messy crying. He didn't even try to hide it.
"You did it, Alexie! You did it!" he shouted, his face pressed into my shoulder.
Two Years Later—2026
Our house in a quiet part of Seattle looked like a museum. Everything was about that day in France. Photos covered the walls. Glass cases held trophies and medals.
The Olympic gold medal sat right in the middle of the fireplace, shining in the afternoon light.
It was the day of the World Cup final. The TV was loud, filled with cheering and commentators yelling.
"Alexie, is that you?" my mom called from the kitchen.
Mary Blackwood always sounded warm and happy. She was calm in a way my dad never was.
No one answered.
Just the sound of the heavy front door closing.
"Alex?" she said, walking into the hallway and wiping her hands on her apron. "You're late. The game's already halfway done. Your father and the kids are..."
She stopped walking.
Someone was standing near the door.
The person was dressed all in black. Heavy boots. Dark pants. A jacket with a hood pulled low, hiding the face.
In one gloved hand, the person was holding something she recognized right away.
A professional target pistol.
Mary's eyes went wide. There was no time to scream.
Thud.
In the living room, Oliver Blackwood didn't turn right away. He was leaning forward, watching the soccer match on TV. His younger kids, Toby and Sarah, sat on the floor, completely focused on the screen.
"Mary? Was that Alex?" Oliver asked, not really paying attention.
No answer.
He frowned and stood up. His knees cracked as he moved, reminding him of all the years he'd spent standing on hard shooting ranges.
"Mary, if that boy forgot the soda again, I swear I'm going to..."
He stopped.
Mary was lying on the floor. She wasn't moving.
Oliver's chest tightened. His mind, usually sharp and fast, froze. This didn't make sense. This wasn't part of the life he'd planned or controlled.
Then he looked up.
The person stood just a few feet away, holding a gun.
Oliver's eyes went straight to it. He knew that gun. He had cleaned it. Adjusted it. Watched his son win gold with it.
"No," Oliver whispered. His voice shook. "No… please."
The figure didn't pause. No emotion. No hesitation. Just calm, practiced movement.
Pop.
Oliver fell.
In the living room, the kids finally noticed something was wrong. The noise from the TV felt too loud now. They turned around as the dark figure stepped into the room.
On the screen, the crowd was cheering. A goal had been scored. The announcer was shouting with excitement.
The bright light from the TV flashed across the intruder as he moved closer to the children.
And the happiness on the screen made everything else feel even worse.
Two more shots.
Two clean hits.
Done with the same cold focus that once made him famous.
After that, the house went quiet. The TV kept playing, but no one was really there anymore. The loving mom. The strict dad. The little brother and sister who looked up to their big brother. All gone.
Forty-Eight Hours Later
"Move! Step back! Give him space!"
Police officers pushed through a crowd of reporters outside the station. Cameras flashed nonstop as I walked up the steps in handcuffs.
I looked terrible. Like I hadn't slept in days. My hair was a mess. My eyes were red and empty. My skin looked pale and worn. I didn't look like an Olympic champion anymore. I looked like someone who didn't belong among the living.
The interrogation room was freezing.
A man named Richard Blackwell sat across from me. He was the main prosecutor. He smelled expensive and confident. He didn't see a kid who lost his family. He saw a big case that could make him famous.
He leaned forward and dropped a clear plastic bag on the table. Inside was the gun.
"We found this in an alley three blocks from your house, Alexander," he said calmly. "Everything matches. Your DNA is on it. And the blood…" He paused. "We both know who that belongs to."
I didn't look at the gun. I stared at his hands. They were shaking just a little.
"I wasn't there," I said quietly. "I was at the library. I was studying. I already told you."
"Two people say they saw your car near the house," Blackwell cut in. "And your friends talked too. They told us how angry you were. How much you hated your father controlling your life. How you said you wished he wasn't around."
"I didn't mean it like that," I said, my voice breaking. "I was just mad. Every kid says stuff like that. I loved them. I would never..."
Blackwell slammed his hand on the table. The sound made me flinch. He grabbed the back of my neck and shoved my face close to the table, right near the evidence bag.
"You're pathetic," he whispered. "You used everything your father taught you to destroy your own family. Clean. Precise. Perfect. Just like a competition. Did it feel good? Did it feel like winning again?"
I broke down. I couldn't hold it in anymore. I cried hard, my forehead pressed against the cold table.
"You're trash," Blackwell said quietly, disgust and satisfaction mixed. "And I'll make sure the whole world sees you exactly the way I do."