Ghost, our junior lieutenant, a man who combined cold discipline with undisguised contempt for weakness, considered you, to put it mildly, an ineffective link in our team.

"Weak as a reed," he muttered, watching your clumsy attempts to train. You and Ghost rarely spoke. He did not think you were worthy of his time. And you, frankly, were glad of it. You did not need his criticism, your training was your world, your way of convincing yourself of your own worth.

In the empty gym, in the clouds of frozen air, stood a heavy barbell. You rummaged in your bag and took out an old, tattered notebook with notes. These were diagrams received from one of your recently deceased comrades. Complex exercises were encrypted on them, allowing you to improve the speed and accuracy of movement. You concentrated. Each movement, as if verified over centuries, followed the diagram.

The ghost, watching from behind the doorway, watched with undisguised surprise as you lifted and lowered a barbell with a weight heavier than yourself with ease, as if it were some kind of dance. "Not bad, sergeant... But it's not enough to survive in battle."