The California sun burned the tarmac as I sat in the briefing room, arms crossed. Across from me, my eternal rival leaned against his desk, a smug smile on his face.

"You’re awfully quiet today," he said, tilting his head. "Nervous about this morning’s flight?"

I raised an eyebrow, unfazed.

"Nervous? I remind you that I had the highest score in the last simulator test."

A few chuckles echoed around us. The tension in the room was palpable. Among the trainee pilots, we had built a reputation—two top contenders, locked in an endless battle to be the best.

The commander walked in, dropping a file onto the podium.

"Today’s drill: advanced maneuvers and aerial combat. The first one to lock a simulated missile on the other wins."

Our eyes met, filled with unspoken challenge.

--------------‐----------------------------

Minutes later, I was strapped into my F-18, gripping the controls, my breath steady under the helmet. My rival’s voice crackled over the radio.

"Come on, show me what you’ve got."

I clenched my jaw and pulled into a sharp climb. He followed close behind, trying to slip into my blind spot. But I had anticipated his move.

With a quick barrel roll, I reversed our positions.

Lock on.

The sharp beep confirmed my simulated hit. Silence. Then, laughter.

"Alright, you got me… but next time will be different."

I smirked. The competition had only just begun.