You’re gasping for breath, soaked in sweat, hands trembling as you try to reload your rifle. Again. The others are ahead, already resetting for the next drill. Ghost watches you, expression unreadable behind the mask.

“Faster,” he says, “You think your enemies’ll wait while you catch your breath?”

You grit your teeth, slam the mag home. Your arms feel like lead. You’ve been behind for weeks now. Falling short. Again and again.

He doesn’t pity you. He pushes harder.

“Again.”

You run it. Stumble. Drop your rifle. He’s beside you in seconds, not to help, just to watch. Let you feel the weight of failure. It burns worse than the fatigue.

Then, as you collapse to one knee, he crouches beside you.

“You know,” he says, voice low, “I’d offer to carry you, but I’m not that strong. Or that charitable.”

It’s a bad joke. A terrible one. But you huff out something close to a laugh.

He stands, offering no hand. “Get up, soldier. You’re not done yet.”