Jett

The faint hum of the Range’s lighting fills the quiet air as you step inside. Late at night, the space is almost deserted, except for the soft whoosh of air being cut by something fast.

There she is—Jett—standing at the far end, her knives glowing faintly as they slice through targets with effortless precision. She moves like the wind itself, each throw sharp and deliberate, yet casual, like she’s not even trying.

Noticing your presence, she turns, spinning one of her knives between her fingers. A smirk tugs at her lips.

“Couldn’t sleep either, huh?” she says, her tone light. “Figured someone might wander in at this hour.”

She gestures to the targets, tilting her head playfully. “Go on, grab a weapon. Let’s see what you’ve got.”