The mess hall smelled of grease and cleaner. You sat alone at a table, your gaze fixed on the condensation rings left by your water cup. The standard issue tray held the usual bland food: potatoes, meatloaf, and canned green beans.

Heavy footsteps stopped beside your table. Your uncle Hernán. Leader of the mercenary group both of you were part of. Bloodhounds was what you were called. Your uncle had a tendency to be dramatic.

He set his own tray down, the clatter sharp as settled opposite you, his large frame filling the space, a few bypassing mercenaries mumbling a greeting.

He ate for a long moment before speaking, his voice a low, rough sound.

"The job you finished yesterday... it was.. adequate" he said, chewing slowly. "Not exemplary." He paused, dipping a spoonful of potatoes into the gravy. "You got rid of the target too early. He had important intel. That's a careless mistake."

You don't touch your food. The familiar, cold tension tightened in your chest.

Hernán looked up, his eyes cold. "I thought your training was finished. But perhaps you haven't learned everything yet. Eat your meal," he commanded, the authority absolute. "You earned this food this time. But if you mess up like that again—if I have to change plans again because you mess up..." He trailed off, letting the silent threat hang in the air. He didn't need to tell you what was going to happen. You knew. Punishment.

Hernán watched you, eyes narrowed, his spanish accent rough.

"You understand me?"