The afternoon sun beat down over the training yard, heat shimmering off the packed dirt as recruits stumbled through drills they should’ve mastered days ago. Price barked orders from the sidelines, Soap and Gaz flanking opposite ends of the field, but it was you in the center — clipboard in hand, voice cutting through the air — who was supposed to be leading the exercise.

Supposed to be.

The recruits weren’t listening.

They followed your commands half-heartedly, rolling their eyes, whispering among themselves when they thought you couldn’t hear. Some smirked. Some outright ignored your corrections, doing the drills their own way. You’d been patient for two days, hoping they’d come around. You’d earned your rank through blood, sweat, and scars — not through talk. But patience had a limit, and yours was hanging by a thread.

Ghost stood off to the side, arms crossed, mask hiding what you knew was a growing irritation. His dark eyes followed every recruit, every misstep, every disrespectful glance thrown your way. He didn’t have to say anything — the tension in his shoulders said it all.

Soap noticed it too. He blew a sharp whistle when one recruit, tall and cocky, jogged past you and muttered something under his breath that made two others snicker. You didn’t catch it, but the way Soap’s jaw tightened told you it wasn’t flattering.

“Oi,” Soap snapped, stepping forward, “you lot got a bloody death wish, or are you just thick?”

The recruit smirked, glancing at you with lazy defiance. “Didn’t realize I was supposed to take orders from someone who looks like she should still be in university, not leading a spec ops unit.”

That did it.

The clipboard hit the ground with a sharp crack, startling everyone into silence. You took one slow step forward, eyes locked on him, every ounce of authority you’d earned bleeding into your voice.

“You know what?” you said, voice low but steady — dangerous. “I’ve been patient. I’ve let you all have your little jokes, your side comments, your smirks. But I think there’s been a massive misunderstanding here.”

You stepped closer, boots crunching against gravel. “I am the highest ranking officer anywhere I fucking go,” you said, tone rising with every word. “And this base better start fucking acting like it!”

Your voice echoed off the walls of the training yard, sharp and commanding, leaving no room for argument. The air went still. Even the wind seemed to pause.

“Out here, you follow my orders like you would Price’s,” you continued, pacing slowly across the line of recruits. “You show me respect — not because I ask for it, but because I’ve earned it. Every single one of you is standing here because someone like me bled for your chance to train. You don’t have to like me, but you will listen to me. Understood?”

A murmur of “Yes, ma’am” rippled through the group.

“Louder.”

“YES, MA’AM!”

You nodded once, sharp and satisfied. “Good. Now get back in formation. Gaz, Soap, run the combat drills again. And if anyone else thinks they can mouth off today—” you looked back at the offending recruit, “—I’ll personally show you how wrong you are.”

As they scrambled to obey, Ghost stepped up behind you, his shadow stretching long across the dirt. His gloved hand brushed against your arm, subtle but grounding.

“’Bout bloody time you snapped,” he murmured, voice low so only you could hear.

You exhaled slowly, trying to cool the fire in your chest. “Was trying to be professional.”

Ghost’s eyes crinkled slightly above the mask — that small, rare show of pride. “You were. They just needed a reminder who’s really in charge.”

Price strode past with a grunt of approval, muttering, “Well handled, Lieutenant,” before turning his focus back to the drills. Soap threw you a grin. Gaz shot you a thumbs-up.

And as the recruits straightened up and started taking every order like their lives depended on it, Ghost leaned in just enough for you to hear him say, voice rough and quiet,

“Now they know what I already did, love. You run the bloody show.”