Monica's emotions had been in turmoil ever since Morris and the others died, forcing her to confront her own past. Owen, as the official boyfriend, had no choice but to keep her company. He wracked his brain for every joke he could think of until she finally cheered up again.
Dating was exhausting.
Later, Owen contacted Dom again. Turns out, the guy hadn't been caught by the cops. Unlike Owen, Dom had no qualms about using certain "tactics"—he had easily taken down the police car chasing him and disappeared into the night.
Even though the race had ended inconclusively, Owen still got his $2,000. That had been the deal—regardless of the outcome, the money was his appearance fee, and it had to be paid.
When he reached out to Max, the rich kid agreed without hesitation. Within minutes, the money was deposited into Owen's account.
This wasn't their first time working together. The police raid had been an unfortunate accident—probably because the event was too big, and word had leaked. It was a reminder that in the future, he should avoid overly flashy underground races.
Owen parked the Camaro in the designated spot. Soon, Max's bodyguards would come to pick it up. Hopefully, Max wouldn't be too heartbroken over the damage.
That night, now fully addicted to the experience, Owen had planned to bring Monica back to his place for another round. But she seemed a little off, so he respectfully took her home instead.
Of course, their relationship wasn't just about hooking up. They had plans for the next day—to hit the IPSC shooting range for some practice.
When they arrived at IPSC the next morning, the range was nearly empty. They picked a secluded section for themselves.
Owen had used an HK416 in Colombia and found it incredibly smooth. Though it was a German-made Heckler & Koch weapon, it closely resembled the American Colt M4A1, with differences mainly in the barrel and upper receiver.
However, the HK416 was more reliable than the M4A1 and slightly longer, which Owen personally preferred.
Monica also used the same rifle this time. Both of them were seasoned shooters—after firing about a hundred rounds, they had a solid feel for the gun's performance.
Monica shot him a challenging look. Owen immediately knew what was coming.
Ever since he had beaten her at IPSC, she had been training hard. Every time she improved even a little, she challenged him again. And every time, she lost.
It wasn't her fault—Owen had bullet time.
Still, he wouldn't deny her the satisfaction of competing.
This time, the match was similar to a 3-gun competition, except they were only using rifles and handguns—no shotguns.
Both used HK416s for the rifle portion. But for handguns, Owen chose his personal USP—he hadn't used it in a while and wanted to get reacquainted. Monica, as always, stuck to her M1911, SWAT's standard sidearm.
The result was predictable.
Whether it was rifles or handguns, Monica couldn't keep up with Owen. Both of them were highly skilled, and accuracy was never an issue. But Owen was just that tiny bit faster every single time.
Monica assumed it was because of her footwork.
Like most shooters, her method involved sprinting to a position, stopping to fire, switching weapons, then running to the next position.
But Owen's approach was different.
From the very first time they competed, he had used "shooting on the move"—firing while advancing.
This drastically cut down on time. While other shooters paused to take aim, Owen was already repositioning, never stopping.
Most people couldn't master this technique because it required insane accuracy while moving.
For Owen, however, bullet time ensured that his aim remained pinpoint even while on the move.
For regular people, breathing alone could throw off their shots while moving—let alone maintaining perfect accuracy.
Despite losing yet again, Monica wasn't upset. By now, she had subconsciously accepted that Owen's shooting was simply on another level.
What really bothered her, though, was that she had lost that perfect synergy she once had with him.
Whenever she trained, she kept recalling how effortlessly they had worked together in combat—how they could read each other's movements without speaking.
One glance, one gesture—she instantly knew what he needed from her, and vice versa.
And the more dangerous the situation, the stronger that connection felt.
It was intoxicating.
Now, shooting at paper targets felt… dull. It didn't give her that feeling.
But how could she explain this to Owen?
She couldn't just turn to him and say, "Owen, I want to team up with you and kill people again."
—
By the time they left IPSC, it was nearly noon.
After grabbing lunch, instead of heading home, Owen took Monica to Universal Studios' Hollywood set.
The movie Die Hard, which Owen had co-written, was currently in production.
It was only when they stepped onto the set that Monica learned her boyfriend was a screenwriter.
Owen successfully earned himself another wave of admiration points.
When they arrived, the crew was filming a gunfight scene—the one where McClane hides in a vent while terrorists shoot at him.
Owen had made some script changes, reducing the number of main characters—now, McClane was the sole protagonist.
Normally, action sequences required a closed set, but Owen had an official ID badge, which allowed him to bring Monica in as a guest.
Even though she had lived in Los Angeles for years, this was her first time on a movie set.
She was excited.
Owen was excited too—but he played it cool.
Their arrival didn't cause any commotion.
Nobody recognized Owen, and even though Monica was stunning, this was Hollywood—beautiful women were everywhere.
At that moment, the director shouted, "Cut!"
The scene hadn't gone smoothly. The director looked unsatisfied, and the actors made some adjustments before preparing for a retake.
"Lights, cameras, reset positions…"
An assistant director moved around, organizing the crew.
Owen and Monica stood in a quiet corner, both thrilled but careful not to disrupt the production.
To them, movies were a big deal.
Owen had only brought Monica here to experience the set atmosphere and have some fun.
They were well-behaved—standing at the back, making sure not to get in the way.
But even standing all the way back, Owen still got pulled into the action.
"You! Yes, you!"
A crew member pointed at him.
"We've got an injured extra. You'll fill in for him."
Owen blinked.
Me?
The guy nodded.
Dazed, Owen walked forward.
"Your outfit is fine—no need to change. Just grab this and follow them when the scene starts."
The assistant director glanced him over, then tossed him a tactical vest and a prop gun.
Nearby, an extra was sitting on the ground, wincing and rubbing his ankle—he must have gotten hurt during an earlier take.
Because Owen was still wearing his IPSC tactical pants from the morning, the assistant director must have assumed he was just another extra.
So, they grabbed him as a replacement.
Owen, playing along, pretended to take orders seriously as he strapped on the vest.
But the moment the assistant director looked away—
He shot Monica a mischievous grin.
Watch this.
Monica covered her mouth, laughing to herself.
Did this idiot even have any acting experience?
And yet, he was about to bluff his way into being an extra in a major Hollywood film.
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