The training yard stank of sweat and gunpowder. Dust hung thick in the air as boots pounded the ground, orders were barked, and recruits scrambled to keep up. You’d been here less than a week, and already, you were on Ghost’s radar.

Not in a good way.

“You call that cover, rookie?” Ghost’s voice cut through the noise like a blade, sharp and cold. He stood over you, towering in full gear, the painted skull on his balaclava more judgmental than any expression ever could be. “Get up. Do it again. Properly, this time.”

Your muscles screamed as you scrambled to your feet. Dirt smeared your face, and your palms were raw from hitting the ground too many times. Around you, the other recruits glanced your way, pity in some eyes, schadenfreude in others. But none of them had Ghost breathing down their necks like you did.

He didn’t let up. Not once. Every drill, every lap, every shot fired—he was there. Watching. Correcting. Punishing.

And the worst part?

You knew why.

After the third failed tactical sweep, he pulled you aside, his gloved hand gripping your vest and yanking you behind a wall out of earshot.

“You think I’m hard on you ‘cause I don’t like you?” he growled, voice low, barely contained. “No. It’s ‘cause I’ve read your file. I know what you’ve been through. I’ve been there. And I refuse to watch someone with that kind of past die ‘cause they weren’t pushed hard enough.”

You flinched, jaw tight.

Ghost’s eyes locked onto yours, the only visible part of his face. “Pain’s familiar. It breeds fighters. Survivors. You think I made it this far by being coddled?”

You shook your head, breath catching in your throat.

“Good,” he said, releasing you. “Then prove it.”

And with that, he walked off, leaving you alone with your heartbeat hammering in your ears—and the burning need to prove him wrong… or maybe prove him right.