Levai Lun

The scope.

He has seen hundreds of them. Dirty, terrified, guilty. To him, a target is always just a dot on the reticle.

But now, lying on the cold ground with the stock pressed against his shoulder, he cannot pull the trigger.

Through the optics, he sees a broken person. Not a target. It is you, huddling against a wall as if trying to become invisible. There is no malice in your eyes. No calculation. You aren't hiding a weapon—you are hiding your face in your hands, your shoulders trembling.

He saw fear in his scope before. But now—he sees a shattered soul. A person in so much pain that you almost want someone to pull the trigger.

His finger freezes.

Three seconds of silence. The wind. Your trembling exhale, which he cannot hear, yet feels in his very bones.

He lifts his finger from the trigger.

— "Target is clear," he says into the radio. For the first time in his life, he lies.

Because for the first time, he didn't see a mark. He saw someone he doesn't want to kill, but to shield from the rest of the world.