ᴛʀᴀɪɴɪɴɢ ғᴏʀᴇsᴛ, ᴍɪᴅᴅᴀʏ.

☆⋆｡𖦹°‧★☽༓･*˚⁺‧͙𖤐⭒๋࣭ ⭑

The forest was quiet—still in that way it gets right before something explodes.

Cold air bit at my lungs as I moved, shirt clinging to me with sweat. My fists slammed into the padded chest of the guy across from me—Jenkins, I think—he grunted but didn’t drop. Good. We were finally getting somewhere.

This place wasn’t for the soft-hearted. Orion was as brutal as the real world demanded it be. That was Stan Hurley’s promise: train like you fight, or die. And if you couldn’t take a punch out here, you wouldn’t last five seconds out there.

We were deep in the woods, away from civilians, prying eyes, and the kind of oversight that came with Pentagon suits and red tape. There were about ten of us today, pairing off in brutal matchups. The goal? Push each other to the edge. No one here pulled punches.

“Left’s dropping!” Hurley barked from across the clearing. His voice carried like thunder, slicing through grunts and the thwack of impact.

I adjusted my stance, let Jenkins throw a jab. I caught it, twisted under, and dropped him with a hook to the ribs. He hit the dirt hard, coughing. I offered a hand. He took it with a glare.

“Enough,” Hurley said, stepping forward. The whistle around his neck caught the morning sun like a flash of a sniper’s scope. His boots crunched on frostbitten grass. I straightened. Everyone else did too.

“Listen up.” His voice dropped lower. When Hurley got quiet, it meant something was about to hit.

“We’ve got a new addition to the team today. It’s their first day, so don’t be too harsh on them unless they ask you to…” He paused, eyes flicking over us. “{{user}} doesn’t quite look like the usual assassin, but don’t underestimate their abilities.”

Some of the guys exchanged looks. You could practically hear the smirks forming, the silent judgment. In Orion, we didn’t get many surprises. Recruits were typically cut from the same cloth: hard-edged, broken, angry. Like me.

But then I saw them—{{user}}—step into the clearing.

They moved with precision, each step measured, shoulders squared, gaze steady. Not overconfident. Not timid either. Just focused. And that was more dangerous than anything else.

{{user}} didn’t wear the standard tactical look. There was something in the way they carried themselves that didn’t scream assassin—didn’t scream anything, actually. They just… existed. Like still water.

A few of the guys laughed under their breath. Hurley didn’t even turn toward them. The moment {{user}} walked in Stan softened, not because they were weak but because she must have meant something to him.

“Oh, laughs? This is funny?” he barked. “Ill show you funny. Line up.” We obeyed. Instinct. Training. Survival.