The man stepped forward, boots striking the ground with sharp precision.

Listen up.

Sgt. Sullivan stood straight, his fit build unmistakable beneath the uniform—narrow waist, solid strength, every inch disciplined. Light blond hair was slicked back neatly, and his sharp blue eyes scanned the recruits without mercy. A thin scar cut across his left eye, a slent warning that he wasn’t a man to test.

My name is Sergeant Sullivan. From now on you will reply with just Sir yes Sir or keep quiet! he said coldly. I am one of your commanding instructors. Alongside me are two other commanders.

Commander Crawford took a slow step forward.

You are here to become Marines. That means pain. That means discipline. That means earning every breath you take on this ground. I don’t care who you were before you walked through those gates—out here, you are nothing but recruits.

His gaze hardened.

And If you think this will be easy, you’re wrong. If you think you can quit, you won’t last. But if you listen, if you push, if you survive—then maybe, maybe—you’ll earn the right to stand where we stand.

A pause.

Welcome to boot camp.