Tim hadn't shown up at the university since Monday, and Ethan was growing more anxious by the hour. He had tried everything: calling, texting, and leaving endless voicemails, but nothing worked. Tim had completely vanished off the grid, leaving behind only the heavy memory of his abrupt departure from the restaurant.
By Tuesday, Ethan's worry had morphed into a quiet, suffocating panic. He sat in his dark dorm room, staring at his phone before typing out yet another message:
"How are you, Tim? You left so suddenly yesterday. I'm really worried about you. Call me as soon as you see this."
He stared at the screen, hoping against hope to see the status change to 'read,' but the response never came. His gut told him something was deeply, fundamentally wrong. Tim was reckless, yes, but he wouldn't disappear like this without a severe, dark reason.
When Wednesday arrived and the silence from Tim's end became unbearable, desperation took over. Ethan sent a final, tense warning:
"Tim, please answer me. If you don't, I'm calling the police."
Still, nothing.
Not knowing what else to do, Ethan decided to head over to the university's shooting club. The range was buzzing with chaotic activity as members prepared for Thursday's big tryout meeting.
"Hey guys," Ethan said, breathing heavily as he approached the core members near the lockers. "Have any of you heard from Tim?"
Logan looked up from cleaning his gear, slowly shaking his head. "Hey, Ethan. No, nothing. He hasn't replied to any messages in the group chat either. We were actually just talking about him."
Willy, who was standing nearby checking the digital schedule on his tablet, glanced over. His posture was rigid, his sharp eyes narrowing slightly. "What's going on with him?"
"He's ignoring all my texts and calls," Ethan admitted, his voice tight with suppressed fear. "I'm really worried about him. This isn't like him."
Willy's expression darkened. Without a word, he pulled out his own phone and dialed Tim's number. It rang twice before going straight to voicemail. The tension in the room grew thick enough to cut with a knife.
"Let's just wait," Al suggested, trying to ease the heavy mood. "It's the tryouts tomorrow. If he wants to be part of this team, he'll definitely show up for that."
Ethan sighed, rubbing the aching back of his neck. "Alright. If any of you hear anything, please let me know immediately."
"You got it," Logan promised warmly.
The next day, Ethan, who didn't even have any lectures scheduled for Thursday, went straight to the shooting club. The place was absolutely packed. Newcomers and older members crowded the hall, filling the narrow corridor with a thick layer of nervous energy. But as the minutes ticked away, Tim was still nowhere to be seen.
Up front, Willy and Seb were busy explaining the strict safety rules to the participants, their deep voices projecting over the anxious chatter.
Ethan frantically checked his watch and shot a quick text to Tim:
"The last participants are getting ready. Where the hell are you?"
The reply was instant, cutting through his panic:
"Look to your right."
Ethan snapped his head to the right, scanning the shifting crowd, and suddenly froze. Tim was standing near the back wall, but he barely looked like himself. His dark hair was a messy, uncombed tangle, his skin was deathly pale, and heavy, dark circles shadowed his eyes. It was blindingly obvious he hadn't slept in days.
Ethan wanted to rush over, grab him by the shoulders, and demand answers, but there was no time.
"Hey, Tim! You're up next! Lane four!" Logan called out, waving him toward the shooting booth.
Tim caught Ethan's terrified, questioning gaze and offered a weak, tragic shrug. "I look terrible, I know. But now's not the time," he murmured as he walked past his friend.
Without giving Ethan a chance to utter a single word, Tim strapped on his eye and ear protection and stepped forward into the booth. The moment his boots planted onto the marking line, his fragile, exhausted posture instantly shifted into something terrifyingly rigid and hyperfocused. The trembling in his frame vanished.
Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang.
Five deafening shots echoed through the range in perfect, rhythmic succession.
When the target rolled back along the overhead wire, a collective, breathless gasp went through the entire room. Each bullet had torn through the exact same microscopic point dead center.
"Fifty points!" Logan shouted, his voice cracking with shock. "A perfect score! The highest of the day!"
Cheers and applause erupted in the hall. The club members immediately swarmed the booth, throwing arms around Tim's shoulders and shouting congratulations. Everyone was thrilled except for Willy. He stood off to the side, arms crossed over his chest, his cold, evaluating gaze locked onto the new recruit.
Noticing the heavy stare, Tim broke away from the celebrating crowd and walked straight up to the top-ranked shooter, a cocky, defiant edge returning to his voice despite his exhaustion.
"Seen what I can do?" Tim asked, tilting his head up. "What do you think now, Captain?"
Willy didn't flinch. He looked down at Tim, his voice smooth and cutting. "You shoot well. But if it were entirely up to me, you wouldn't be allowed on this team."
Tim's fake smile faded instantly. "Why?"
"Because I notice everything," Willy said coldly, taking a slow step closer until he was standing right in Tim's personal space. "Your focus slipped on the third shot. Your left hand shook. And considering you've already been skipping your university classes, I highly doubt you'll commit to our grueling training schedule. I don't need unreliable people in my club."
Tim narrowed his eyes, matching Willy's icy demeanor with an intense fire of his own. "I'm not here to compete with beginners, Willy. I'll tell you straight, I'm here for your spot."
A ghost of a dark smirk touched Willy's lips. "You want my place? Then you'd better work until you bleed for it. But honestly? Looking at you right now, I don't think you've got it in you."
"Is that so?" Tim countered, leaning in closer, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "Give me a few months, and I'll take everything you have." He flashed a quick, sharp, defiant wink and walked away to join the others before Willy could respond.
The bitter truth was, Willy wasn't wrong. Tim was completely falling apart inside. The past three days had been a brutal storm of severe depression, crippling panic attacks, and agonizing insomnia. He was running on pure, toxic adrenaline.
"Hey, shouldn't we celebrate your win tonight?" Logan asked, snapping Tim out of his dark thoughts.
"Sorry, I'm not really in the mood," Tim said quietly, his energy rapidly draining.
Al patted his back reassuringly. "Is this because of what Willy said? Just ignore him, man. He's always a dictator during tryouts."
Ethan stepped into his line of sight, his eyes melting with concern. "Talk to me, Tim. Come back to my place. I'll help you however I can."
"Yeah, you left so suddenly the other day," Logan added, looking between them. "We were all genuinely worried about you."
Tim felt a sharp pang of guilt pierce his chest. These people actually cared. "I know. And I'm sorry. I just... I don't want to talk right now. I'm just completely exhausted."
Logan nodded understandingly, backing off. "If that's what you need, man. Take it easy."
"Call me the second you get home, okay?" Ethan murmured, his tone leaving no room for argument.
At that exact moment, Tim's phone vibrated violently in his palm. He glanced down at the screen, and the remaining color drained from his face instantly.
Unknown Number:Still there? Your time is running out. Go back to your parents before we make you!
The sudden, terrifying shift in his demeanor didn't escape the group.
"What happened? Who is that?" Ethan asked, reaching out to touch his arm.
Tim quickly forced a bright, completely fake smile and shoved the phone deep into his pocket. "Nothing! Just a friend who's pissed that I've been ignoring his calls. Same old empty threats. I'll go call him back outside. Bye, guys! Oh, and Ethan, I won't be on campus tomorrow either. Don't worry, though I'm just visiting my parents."
Ethan frowned, deeply unsatisfied with the answer. "Fine. But you better answer my texts this time, or I'm breaking down your door!"
"I'll try," Tim laughed weakly, stepping backward out of the range.
Ethan slapped his shoulder in mock anger. "I'm serious, Tim!"
"Relax, relax," Tim chuckled, though his heart was hammering against his ribs. "Sometimes you act exactly like an overprotective older brother."
"Because you act like a reckless child," Ethan countered, shaking his head. "If you want me to stop, then grow up."
"Nope. I'm a spoiled brat," Tim shouted back, sticking his tongue out with a burst of boyish defiance before turning on his heel and vanishing down the corridor.
Ethan just sighed, entirely used to Tim's sudden, jarring shifts in personality.
From across the room, Willy watched Tim's retreating figure silently. Something was definitely off. Tim was hiding a massive, dangerous secret, and Willy had already noticed one undeniable pattern: every single time the new recruit got one of those mysterious messages, he vanished into thin air.
That evening, Tim saw that he had been added to a new group chat titled The Marksman - Elite.
Logan:Check the pinned messages for the training schedule and club rules. Ask if you have any questions. Internal competitions are held weekly, and attendance is mandatory. Perform poorly, and you are out. Standard safety protocols apply.
Tim stared at his phone screen from his dark bed, a sudden wave of competitive spite washing over his exhaustion. He tapped the keyboard.
Tim:See you at the competition.
Willy:Not surprised. I wouldn't expect anything less from someone who talks so big.
Tim:What's wrong, Willy? Sad you can't see me every day? Don't worry, once I'm back from my trip, I'll be with you every moment.
Willy:I don't give a damn what you do. Just don't drag the team down.
Tim:Oh, I won't.
Tim smirked at his phone screen, a genuine spark of amusement hitting him for the first time in days. If there was one thing he loved, it was getting under Willy's thick, unshakeable skin. He locked the phone, the echoes of his own text staying with him: I'll be with you every moment.
He had no idea how true those words would eventually become.