It did not match the vulnerability Marcus believed he saw.
The precision appeared automatic, almost like muscle memory.
Marcus leaned over the table and placed both hands against the surface.
“Seriously, what is the story? Car crash? Laboratory explosion?”
He studied her scars.
“Everyone wants to know what made you look like an extra from a horror film.”
Reeves stood and lifted her tray.
Beside Marcus, she looked even smaller, barely reaching his shoulder.
For a moment, everyone expected her to hurry away.
Instead, she looked directly into Marcus’s eyes.
She held his gaze for three full seconds.
Then she spoke in a low and even voice.
“Tomorrow. Zero six hundred. Shooting range.”
Marcus blinked.
“What?”
“You want to know whether I belong here?”
Her tone contained no anger and no boastfulness.
“Tomorrow. Shooting range. Zero six hundred.”
A grin spread across Marcus’s face.
“So she does speak.”
He turned toward the rest of the mess hall and raised his voice.
“Spread the word. Tomorrow, we get a show.”
He pointed toward Reeves.
“Scarface thinks she can shoot.”
Laughter and whistles moved through the room.
Telephones appeared. Messages began spreading before Reeves even reached the exit.
Within minutes, most of the company would know.
Reeves walked past Marcus and continued toward the door.
Despite the mockery, her posture had changed.
Her shoulders were straight, her head was raised, and her stride was measured.
She did not hurry.
She did not shrink.
Every movement was economical and controlled, almost practiced.
Private Sarah Mitchell watched Reeves leave from a table near the center of the room.