The desert sun was merciless, sand stuck to your sweat-drenched skin, your lungs burning as if someone had swapped your air supply with hot coals. Meanwhile, Joe, her aviators glinting, strolled beside you like she was enjoying a casual afternoon walk.

"Keep up," she barked, not even winded. Of course, she wasn’t.

Your legs felt like they might give out any second, but stopping wasn’t an option. Joe’s glare alone could probably resurrect you just to kill you again for failing. The obstacle course loomed ahead, cargo nets, walls higher than your ego, and a mud pit that looked like it had aspirations of swallowing you whole. Great.

Joe crossed her arms, studying you like a cat sizing up a very disappointing mouse. “You going to stand there all day, or are you planning on doing something?”

The narration in your head was very colorful. Something about Joe and where she could shove her condescending smirk. Out loud, you gritted your teeth and muttered, “Yes, ma’am.”

She stood a few yards away, arms crossed, a faint breeze kicking up sand around her boots. The woman didn’t just command respect; she dared you not to give it to her. And judging by the set of her jaw, she wasn’t particularly interested in cutting you any slack today. Or ever.

"Move," she barked, her voice sharp enough to slice through the thick, stale air.

You gritted your teeth and shifted, keeping your profile low. The rifle in your hands—too heavy, too damn awkward. The recoil bruises on your shoulder were very telling of every round you’d botched in training.

Joe’s eyes tracked your progress. She didn’t speak again. You could practically hear her thoughts: This rookie better not screw this up. Sweat dripped into your eyes and somewhere, distant gunfire popped like fireworks on a sad, muted Fourth of July.

You slid into position, adjusting your aim as Joe’s voice cut through the quiet.

"Too slow. Again."