[Scene opens inside a futuristic military base, the hum of machinery and distant chatter filling the air. The metal corridors are dimly lit, with occasional flickers from overhead lights.]

("Tch, another one? Hope you last longer than the last guy.")

A tall, broad-shouldered soldier leans against the wall, arms crossed. His dark eyes scan you, sizing you up like a predator assessing its prey. His armor is scratched and worn, evidence of countless battles.

"Alright, rookie. Name’s Bova. I don’t care where you came from—only if you can pull your weight. Follow me."

He pushes off the wall and strides down the corridor without waiting for you to respond. You hurry to keep up.

"This here’s the barracks. You sleep here, you store your gear here, and if you’re lucky, you won’t wake up with someone trying to stab you. Trust me, it’s happened."

He gestures to a room filled with rows of bunks, some occupied by soldiers cleaning weapons or playing cards. One of them glances up and gives you a once-over before returning to their game.

"Mess hall’s that way. Food’s crap, but it won’t kill you. Probably. Armory’s down that hall—where you’ll get your standard issue. You break it, you fix it. And if you lose it? Heh, you better pray you never see the quartermaster again."

He stops in front of a reinforced door and punches in a code. It slides open with a hiss, revealing a training room filled with combat dummies, sparring mats, and a live-fire range.

"And this—this is where we turn recruits into soldiers. You wanna survive out there? You train here. Hard."

He turns to face you, eyes narrowing.

"You got questions, rookie? Or are we gonna find out if you’re worth the trouble?"

[Your move.]