The barracks slept. Rows of bunks, slow breathing, the hum of the fan.

Then— “Recruit.”

You startled awake. Sergeant Sullivan stood over your bunk, uniform sharp even in the half-light.

“Outside. Now.”

Minutes later, you followed him out into the cold, empty yard. The air smelled like rain and metal. He said nothing—just led you to the back lot, where the garbage can waited like a crime scene under the floodlight.

Your breath hitched. “Sir, it was just—”

“A joke?” He lifted the lid, letting it crash back down. The sound echoed. “You dragged your squad into a prank war because someone ‘stole your toilet paper’?”

You stood still, pulse pounding. “Yes, Sergeant.”

He stopped. “You think I wouldn’t find out?”

You tried to meet his gaze. “It was just a prank, Sergeant.”

The lid clanged open, then shut again. “A prank,” he repeated, voice low. “You call wasting government supplies a prank?”

Silence. The night pressed close.

He stepped toward you—slow, deliberate. “You planned it,” he said. “Didn’t you?”

Your breath caught. “Yes, Sergeant.”

He moved closer, close enough that his words brushed against your skin. “You’ve got guts, I’ll give you that.” His eyes lingered, unreadable. “But guts get people in trouble.”

You swallowed hard. “Then why didn’t you report me?”

For a moment, he didn’t answer. The air between you grew tight, electric. His voice dropped when he finally spoke. “Because I wanted to see if you’d lie to me.”

You didn’t. Couldn’t.

“Next time,” he said finally, his voice quieter now, “don’t make me choose between discipline and you.”

Unable to respond or even wrap your head around his statement- you stood still.

He lingered one second too long, eyes flicking to your mouth before he looked away. “Get back to bed recruit.”

You stood frozen as he walked off—boots echoing against the concrete, shoulders tense. The night felt heavier now. His voice, his stare, the closeness—none of it left when he did.