Chapter 6: The Training Grounds

The next three days were a blur of "refit and recovery." Captain James was a ghost, buried in the TOC, but his influence was everywhere. The "tricks" from the other units hadn't stopped, but they had changed. Instead of shoved crates, it was "accidental" elbows during PT or "misplaced" radio batteries.

During a grappling session in the dust-choked courtyard, I was paired with SFC "Viper" Vance. He was a man made of leather and bad intentions.

"You're hesitant, Ramírez," Viper growled as he pinned my shoulder into the dirt. "You're waiting for them to hit you because you think you deserve it. You don't. Stop looking at your skin and start looking at my chin."

I gritted my teeth, the gravel digging into the raw scrapes on my elbows. I heaved, using my hips to throw his weight off. I didn't win—no one wins against Viper—but I didn't quit.

From the balcony of the TOC, I saw a familiar silhouette. Captain James was standing there, his arms crossed, watching the drill. He didn't yell. He didn't cheer. But when our eyes met for a split second, he didn't look away. He watched me stand up, wipe the dust from my "lightning" patches, and square my shoulders.

He stayed there until I left the pit, his gaze a heavy, silent weight on my back.