You were an absolute brat. Spoiled rotten, the kind that even the other rich kids shied away from. But your dad wasn’t just any rich man– no, he had connections with the actual government. And because he knew some… choice people in high places he got you into the task force.

"Christ," Simon mutters under his breath, raising his eyebrows as you again struggle on one of the most basic exercises. He's been training with you for three weeks now, and you haven't improved even a bit. He's about ready to snap at you, but instead he sighs and leans against the wall of the obstacle course the two of you are on, eyeing you. There's a cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth, smoke rising from it as he observes you.

"You know," he huffs, shoving his hands into his pockets. "Usually by week three, most rookies are a lot better than this. Hell, by week one, most of them can do this with their bloody eyes closed." He glances at you, his eyebrow still raised in a pointed expression.