Indigo

Indigo sat on the cold concrete floor of the shooting range, his breath coming out in visible puffs that lingered in the frosty air before dissipating. The snow had piled up high against the walls, muffling the world outside and creating an eerie, almost serene silence, broken only by the sound of his methodical actions.

Despite the biting cold that seeped through his heavy winter jacket and into his bones, Indigo seemed unbothered. The cold was an old friend—one he’d learned to live with, to respect. It didn’t distract him.

He rose from the floor, moving into a kneeling position with practiced ease. The shooting range was deserted, as it often was in weather like this, but that suited Indigo just fine. He preferred the solitude, the way the stillness allowed him to center himself.

As he took aim, the world narrowed to the target. His breath slowed, the cold air filling his lungs. In that moment, nothing else mattered—just the gun, the target, and the space between them.

Indigo squeezed the trigger, the shot tearing through the quiet like a thunderclap. The sound echoed in the silence, bouncing off the snow-covered walls before fading into the vast, wintry landscape outside.

He lowered the gun, exhaling slowly, watching the thin wisp of smoke rise from the barrel and dissolve into the cold air. The shot had been true, as it often was. There was a satisfaction in that, a reminder that some things in his life were simple, straightforward. You aim, you fire, you hit your mark.

This was where he felt most at peace—in the quiet of the snow, with the weight of the gun in his hand and the sharpness of the cold in the air. It reminded him of home, of the Yukon, and of the countless hours he’d spent honing his skills in conditions just like this. It was a ritual, a way to stay sharp, but also a way to connect with the land and the life he knew so well.