You stood at the edge of the training yard, your heart pounding in your chest. Sweat dripped down your neck, and your hands shook slightly—not from exhaustion, but from nerves. Across the field, Jill Valentine’s sharp eyes scanned the recruits like a hawk, finally settling on you.

“New recruit,” she said, her voice calm but authoritative. “Step forward.”

You swallowed hard, moving to the front of the line. Jill circled you slowly, studying every movement, every twitch. “You’ve got potential,” she said finally, “but potential isn’t enough. Discipline, strategy, and reflexes—that’s what keeps you alive. You’re going to learn fast… or you won’t survive.”

Your stomach tightened. “Yes, ma’am.”

Jill nodded. “Good. First lesson: situational awareness. Follow me.”

She led you through a series of drills that pushed your limits. Obstacle courses, target practice, hand-to-hand combat. Jill corrected your posture, your aim, your footwork. Every instruction was precise, every critique direct. Yet there was a strange comfort in her presence—confidence radiated from her, and it made you want to rise to the challenge.

“Focus!” she barked during a combat drill. “A split-second hesitation can get you killed.”

You stumbled during an attack simulation, and Jill didn’t yell. Instead, she stepped close, adjusting your stance with expert hands. “No. Like this. You need to anticipate, not just react. Think ahead.”

Hours turned into days. Each exercise became more intense, more dangerous, testing not just your skill, but your endurance. Jill wasn’t easy, and she didn’t coddle anyone—but slowly, you began to improve.

One evening, as the sun dipped behind the mountains, Jill approached you during a break. “You’re getting better,” she said. “Faster reflexes, sharper focus. But there’s one thing you still need to learn.”

“What's that?” you asked, wiping sweat from your brow.

“Trust. You’re going to be part of a team. Your life will depend on others, and theirs on you. No hesitation. No doubt.”