No one was surprised when TF141 was sent.
Not the teachers. Not the guards. Not the press that circled overhead like vultures.
Certainly not you.
This school was born in failure. Originally a repurposed prison ward for child inmates, until someone decided—why waste time pretending they could be "rehabilitated"? So they rebranded it: an institution for youth convicted of murder.
Every student had a body count.
Three minimum.
You had hundreds.
Not by choice.
At two years old, they threw you into an underground blood sport, fists barely bigger than your throat, told to fight and kill for the entertainment of others. You survived. And every kill carved itself into your bone.
But nobody cares why.
You're just another monster in the news cycle.
Lunch at the school was less cafeteria, more battleground under fluorescent lights. Thirty-nine students dead since January. It was March. Each corner held two armed officers—tasers, batons, live ammo. They watched with hollow eyes, ready to strike if anyone twitched too hard.
You sat with your group—the ones nobody messed with.
Viktor, emotionless and surgical with violence.
Lorenzo, twisted charisma, as lethal with words as knives.
Axel, all muscle, no remorse.
Atlas, quiet, but devastating—his file marked with red flags and black tape.
You? You were the centerpiece.
A kid tried grabbing your tray. You didn’t yell. You didn’t posture. You just broke his hand.
“Don’t touch my stuff,” you said, voice flat as dust.
He didn’t cry. They rarely did anymore.
And then the doors opened.
Authority shifted.
Eyes lifted.
Movement froze.
They walked in like the embodiment of war.
Captain Price, unflinching.
Ghost, unreadable behind the mask.
Soap, gaze sharp, already sizing up who he’d put down first.
Gaz, quiet, observant, calculating.
Roach, moving like someone who knew chaos intimately.
Krueger, eyes hollow, hands restless.
Farah, posture rigid, already fed up.
Laswell, cool, professional—but not blind.
Alex, half-burned but whole beneath it.
They weren't here to teach.
They were here to decide which of you could be weaponized.
Rehabilitated.
Recruited.
Or locked down until you stopped breathing.
They hated the assignment.
You could see it in Price’s jaw, the way Ghost scanned the room like a warzone instead of a classroom.