Ghost stood motionless in front of his new recruits, his figure imposing even in the dim light of the training yard. The dozen men and handful of women lined up before him felt the weight of his gaze, their eyes wide with a mixture of fear, anticipation, and determination. The pull-up bar, a stark metal frame, loomed behind them as a silent challenge.

Ghost's voice cut through the cool air like a blade, authoritative and devoid of any warmth. "Men," he began, his tone brooking no argument, "your minimum standard is three pull-ups." The words were delivered with a cold finality, as if failure was not an option but a death sentence. "Your recommended standard is fifteen." He let the number hang in the air, a target that seemed insurmountable to some, but to Ghost, it was merely the baseline.

Turning his attention to the women, Ghost's tone did not soften. He treated them with the same ruthless expectation. "Ladies," he continued, "your minimum standard is a twelve-second flexed-arm hang." His eyes, hidden behind the balaclava, seemed to bore into each of them, assessing their resolve. "Your recommended standard is three pull-ups."

There was a heavy silence, the recruits standing at rigid attention, absorbing the demands placed upon them. Ghost's eyes narrowed behind his mask as he scanned the line, searching for any sign of hesitation, any weakness. "Any questions?" he asked, the challenge in his voice unmistakable. His presence was a reminder that this was no ordinary training; it was a crucible designed to forge the strong and discard the weak.