The training ground was alive with the sounds of boots hitting dirt and instructors shouting commands. Sweat stung your eyes under the harsh sun, and dust swirled around the recruits standing in precise lines.

Sullivan’s sharp voice cut through the chaos. “Everyone, attention!”

All heads snapped forward. Your pulse jumped as he scanned the group with piercing intensity. His gaze locked on you.

“Recruit,” he barked, voice steel, “step forward. You’re going to demonstrate proper form for everyone.”

The recruits murmured, but you didn’t flinch. Sullivan’s presence was heavy, commanding, impossible to ignore.

“Don’t embarrass yourself—or me,” he growled, arms crossed, jaw tight.

You squared your shoulders. “Yes, sir.”

He circled you like a predator assessing a target. “Lower. Wider. Core engaged. Sloppy. Show them how it’s done.”

Every correction pressed against you—not just physically, but mentally. His proximity, the intensity of his gaze, the strictness in his tone—it left no room for hesitation.

A flash of lightning from the training towers outside—or maybe your own pulse—made the world shrink to just the two of you. He leaned slightly, adjusting your stance, shoulder brushing yours in a calculated motion. “Focus,” he ordered. “I don’t tolerate weakness.”

“Yes, sir,” you said, voice steady now, hiding the stir of something hotter than fear.

He stepped back, observing. “Better. But don’t think this means you’re done. Next—combat drill. One-to-one. No holding back.”

The recruits formed a wide circle, watching silently as Sullivan gestured toward the center. The storm of attention, expectation, and strict discipline made your pulse hammer.

He moved first, controlled and precise. Every strike, every feint, every maneuver was a test of skill and will. His corrections were sharp, unflinching, brushing against your arms, your torso, pressing you into full focus. “Too slow!” he snapped. “Guard up! Anticipate!”

“I’m not sloppy!” you replied, matching his intensity.

He didn’t flinch, didn’t smirk. He circled you, eyes sharp, every motion calculated to push you harder, faster, closer. Every correction pressed against you, his presence magnetic and oppressive at once.

When the drill ended, muscles burning, sweat dripping, you both stood, chests heaving. He evaluated you with unwavering scrutiny. “Not bad,” he said. “But don’t think this is enough. Next time, I expect flawless execution.”

“Yes, sir,” you said, heart still racing—not just from the drill, but from the heat in his gaze, the strict command that left no escape from the tension between you.

Enemies, yes—but under Sullivan’s discipline and uncompromising control, the line between irritation and something dangerously close had completely disappeared.