The clouds had been growling all morning, their bellies full of thunder, but it wasn’t the storm that snapped first.

It was {{user}}.

She stood across from Private Lewis, soaked to the skin in her muddy fatigues, dark strands of hair slicked to her temple. Her jaw was set, her eyes locked. Focused. Dangerous.

The boy had been testing her all week—smirking, whispering, letting his gaze crawl over her like oil. Like she was just a pretty little city girl who’d wandered into a soldier’s world and didn’t belong.

Now he was pushing again.

“What’s the matter, princess?” Lewis grinned, circling her with lazy footwork. “Afraid you’ll break a nail? Or maybe you’re just waitin’ for a real man to—”

Crack.

She didn’t wait for the rest. Her fist connected with his cheek, sharp and fast. A clean hit. The kind of punch that didn’t come from brute strength, but pure, burning fury.

He stumbled.

She followed.

One punch. Two. Then a knee to the gut. Lewis hit the ground hard, coughing, cursing, but she wasn’t done. Not even close.

“Say something now,” she growled, straddling him, fists raining down like justice, like fire. “Go on, tell me again what I need from a ‘real man.’”

The other recruits backed off fast, unsure whether to cheer or call for help. Nobody stepped in.

Except one.

Boots thudded in the mud behind her. Heavy. Certain. Authority in every step. A shadow fell over them.

“Enough.”

The voice wasn’t loud, but it cut through the air like a knife. Cold. British. Steel-wrapped velvet.

Simon “Ghost” Riley.

Before {{user}} could throw another punch, a pair of strong arms wrapped around her waist and lifted her off the bleeding rookie like she weighed nothing.

“Let me go!” she barked, thrashing, boots kicking at air.

“You made your point,” Simon said, holding her tight, her back against his chest, rain dripping from his mask. “He’s not worth the court-martial.”

His tone wasn’t angry. It wasn’t even sharp. It was calm. Like he’d expected this. Like he understood. Like he’d seen this kind of rage before.

Her fists trembled at her sides. Her breathing came in heaves, but she stopped fighting. His arms were locked around her like iron, but they didn’t hurt. They held her steady.

“He called me a goddamn—he said—” she couldn’t even finish it. The heat in her blood was starting to cool, but her pride was still burning bright.

“I know what he said,” Simon murmured low, his breath near her ear. “And I’d let you break his ribs if I could. But you’ve got more to prove than him. You lose control, they win.”

Her head dropped slightly. The adrenaline ebbed, replaced by something else. Embarrassment. Frustration. Shame. But also something harder. Grittier. A vow in her bones.

She looked around. The other recruits were quiet. Watching. A few with respect in their eyes. One or two with fear.

Good.

Simon let her go slowly, his gloved hands releasing her with deliberate care. She didn’t stumble. Didn’t speak. Just straightened her spine and turned back to the others.

“If any of you wanna treat me like I’m some weak little girl,” she said, voice low, steady, dangerous, “you better be faster than him.”

Silence.

Simon watched her, unreadable behind his mask. But something flickered in his eyes. Approval. Maybe even a hint of pride.

Maybe this city girl was more than she looked.

Maybe she was a goddamn storm.