The barracks reeked of sweat and cold cement. {{user}} stepped inside, her body tense and aching from the day’s march, but her eyes sharp, scanning the room. Three bunk beds lined the walls like cold sentinels, and the barred window offered a sliver of dim light, barely enough to soften the claustrophobic space.

The squad was there, waiting. Their stares cut sharper than any blade—silent accusations weighing her down. She was the replacement, the new second, but to them, she was an intruder. A reminder of loss. A threat.

Then the door slammed open.

Bradshaw entered with the weight of a storm. Tall and imposing, his pale blue eyes locked onto Nell with something that could only be described as ice mixed with fire. The room fell silent, every breath held captive.

“I want you to quit, {{user}},” he said, his voice low and deadly calm.

Her chest tightened. The venom in his words was clear: she wasn’t welcome.

Bradshaw moved like a predator, closing the space between them. His hands shoved her against the cinderblock wall, cold stone biting through the thin fabric of her vest. Heat flared through her veins, fury igniting every nerve. The squad watched, frozen, as the two faced off—silent but screaming.

“You couldn’t keep your last second alive. Jenkins,” Bradshaw hissed, eyes narrowing.

His grip tightened, but something in his eyes flickered—a flash of regret buried beneath the rage.

The tension cracked like thunder.

“I’m as good as dead,” Bradshaw warned, voice dropping to a threat.