There are days when Jo looks like a model.
There are days when Jo looks like a rebel.
And then there’s today — when Jo looked like she walked straight out of an action movie where the plot makes no sense, but the outfit is flawless.
Dressed in black wetlook leggings so shiny they could signal aircraft, and a matching black top that screamed “I don’t break rules, I rewrite them in eyeliner,” Jo entered the shooting range with a slow-motion strut that absolutely no one asked for.
Attitude loaded. Gun? Questionably held.
Observers (mainly one nervous instructor and a vending machine) noted her aura was somewhere between “fashion assassin” and “dangerously confident intern on day one.” Thankfully, no opponent was scheduled. Even more thankfully, the safety was still on.
Jo approached the target like it had insulted her shoes. She raised the weapon with the grace of someone who had clearly practiced this exact motion in front of a mirror — possibly while listening to spy movie soundtracks.
Bang!
She hit the edge of the paper. Barely.
Still, she smirked like she just took out a villain and saved Paris.
Her stance? Dramatic.
Her grip? Questionable.
Her commentary? Nonstop.
“Is this where I say ‘I’ll handle this’? Or do I just blow glitter and walk away?”
By shot number three, she had somehow posed more than she aimed, and the instructor had started visibly sweating. “She’s not bad,” he whispered. “She’s just… cinematic.”
In the end, Jo blew imaginary smoke from the barrel like an old Western star, handed the gun back like it was a lipstick, and announced, “I don’t need perfect aim. I’ve got presence.”
Moment slayed.
