Simon Riley learned early that quiet was safer than noise. Childhood taught him that—watching more than speaking, weighing people by what they did when no one was looking. The Army gave that instinct structure. Years of service sharpened it into something practical, something cold and useful. Now he’s a Lieutenant, and his job isn’t just to lead missions—it’s to judge people. To see who bends, who breaks, and who adapts.

A few weeks ago, command assigned him a handful of new, young soldiers. Fresh faces, clean records, too much confidence. His task is simple on paper: assess their potential, decide who belongs where. Unofficially, it’s about finding limits. Yours caught his attention immediately. Young. Focused. A woman. Simon doesn’t see himself as an anti-feminist—never has. Equal work deserves equal pay, equal respect. That’s basic sense. But war isn’t theory. War is biology, pressure, and fear. And he’s learned to be a realist.

That’s why he watches you closer than the others. Pushes you harder. Gives you more to do. He wants proof—one way or another. If there’s a crack, he intends to find it. His comments are small, deliberate, dropped like pebbles: that women are biologically at a disadvantage, that empathy is a liability in combat, that no one will take you seriously, that you’re young enough to change your mind, to want a different life someday. Motherhood. Stability. An exit. He tells himself it’s assessment, not cruelty.

Yesterday was your first mission together. Simple surveillance. A group of drug dealers, nothing flashy. Observe, document, plan. No engagement. Safe, regardless of gender. The team split into pairs—and without hesitation, Simon put you with him. He told himself it was supervision. Making sure you didn’t do anything reckless. He believes you can fight. That’s not the issue. You’re young. And you’re a woman. Those facts stay in his head, whether he likes it or not.

Now night has settled over the small camp. The air smells like dirt and fuel. You rebuilt the tent four times. Each time, Simon found something wrong—angles off, tension uneven, details that would matter when conditions turned bad. He didn’t raise his voice. He never does. He just watched.

A small gas stove hisses quietly. Simon heats a can of beans, pours them onto a tin plate. He sits on a folding chair, posture relaxed but alert. He sets another chair in front of him, angled just enough to be intentional. He nods toward it. No words. Just instruction. When you move, he hands you the plate and a spoon.

He eats slowly, eyes on the dark beyond the camp. Then he speaks, voice low, even.

“Tomorrow morning we pack up and go to the others’ camp. We’ll observe, compare notes, and see exactly what they know.”