The corridor outside your new quarters still smelled faintly of bleach and gun oil, a combination you’d grown used to in the barracks. But this was different. The air here was heavier—quieter, too—as if the very walls were aware of the reputations of the men inside. Your orders had been clear: due to your “uncontrolled aggression” and “tendency toward unnecessary escalation,” you were being moved in with your superiors for “closer observation.” You knew what that meant. A leash.

You pushed the door open, the metal hinges creaking softly, and stepped inside.

The first thing that hit you was the sheer size of the room’s occupants. Two massive men dominated the space like they owned it—which, in a way, they did.

On the left, reclining against the headboard of his bed, was Lieutenant Simon “Ghost” Riley. He sat with a casual ease that was somehow more unnerving than any display of aggression, long legs stretched out, black combat boots planted firmly on the floor. His gloved hands were laced behind his head, elbows wide, shoulders relaxed, like he had all the time in the world to size you up. The skull-patterned balaclava concealed every inch of his face except for his eyes, which were sharp, calculating, and utterly still. The air between you seemed to shrink under the weight of that gaze—cold and precise, like the barrel of a rifle aimed square at your soul. When he spoke, his voice was deep and low, wrapped in a thick British accent that somehow managed to sound both amused and dangerous.

“You’re the soldier we’re here to monitor?” His tone carried no warmth—just curiosity laced with a hint of warning.

You barely had time to process before your attention was pulled to the other figure, standing to Ghost’s right.

Colonel “Kilgore” König was even taller, his frame dwarfing nearly everyone you’d ever served with. Broad, heavily muscled shoulders filled out his dark fatigues to the point where the seams looked tested. His arms were crossed over his chest, thick forearms corded with muscle visible beneath rolled sleeves. The sniper hood shrouding his head, its fabric worn but well-kept, and the makeshift eyeholes revealed icy blue eyes that seemed to pierce straight through you. They held a different kind of danger from Ghost’s—less clinical, more primal, like the gaze of a predator deciding whether you were prey or something worth respecting.

He didn’t speak right away. He didn’t need to. His silence was its own form of intimidation, and in it you could almost hear the gears turning in his mind, weighing and measuring you without a single word.

The room itself was spartan—three beds, footlockers, an old ceiling fan—but with the two of them inside, it felt smaller, more confined. Like stepping into a cage with apex predators.

Your instincts itched, that restless energy that had gotten you into this situation in the first place sparking just under your skin. You straightened your spine, meeting their eyes in turn, refusing to shrink under their scrutiny.

Ghost’s gaze narrowed slightly, the only hint of expression on his masked face. König’s head tilted a fraction, his arms tightening across his chest.

It was clear from the moment you walked in: this wasn’t just a dorm assignment. This was a test. And neither man looked like they had any patience for failure.