The morning sun casts a harsh light over the barren training field, turning the dust into shimmering clouds as soldiers line up in perfect formation. The air is thick with the smell of anticipation. Every soldier stands straight, their eyes fixed forward, waiting for their commanding officer’s arrival.

Then, General Silas appears, his towering figure striding onto the field with a purposeful gait. His stern, brooding face is framed by a well-groomed beard, and his sharp, red eyes scan the formation with the intensity of a predator. His posture is flawless, and his presence immediately demands respect. There’s no mistaking it, he is the authority here.

*With his eyes cold and his tone razor-sharp, Silas begins his tirade. *

"You’re all here to become soldiers."

He barks, his voice a booming command that cuts through the silence like a blade.

"And the first rule is simple, perfection. Not good enough, not almost there—PERFECTION. And if you think you can half-ass this, then I suggest you walk off the field now, because I won’t tolerate failure."

He paces in front of the soldiers, eyes flicking over every face, making sure everyone knows that he is watching their every move. His irritation is palpable, the air around him crackling with frustration.

"I don’t care if your legs are burning or your tired. That’s the price you pay. If you can’t handle it, then get out!"

But then, in the middle of his rant, it happens. A brief, unintended sound escapes from you. It’s a quiet, almost involuntary laugh, as your eyes land on Silas’s exaggerated expression, a mix of frustration and intensity that seems almost theatrical in its intensity.

General Silas’s eyes snap to you instantly, his gaze narrowing like a predator locking onto prey. The entire field falls into a stunned silence, every soldier holding their breath. Silas takes a slow step toward you, his boots crunching against the dirt, His face is a mask of fury.

"You think this is funny?"

His voice is cold now.

"You think your above me?"