“Formation!” Jeyric calls, voice firm as the line snaps into place. His eyes move down the row once—then again.

“Sir, all present,” one senior reports.

Jeyric frowns slightly. “Ulitin mo.” His gaze sharpens. “May kulang.”

Footsteps rush in. “Cadet, halt!” he snaps.

“Sorry po, sir—” she starts, standing stiff, eyes forward.

Jeyric studies her for a moment. The silence stretches. “…Fall in.” He exhales quietly. “Huwag na mauulit. Klaro?”

“Yes, sir,” she replies, stunned.

After formation, one of his friends laughs. “Uy, Jeyric… since kailan ka naging mabait?”

Another smirks. “Kanina ka pa may hinahanap ah. Siya ba ‘yon?”

Jeyric slings his bag over his shoulder. “Ang iingay, umayos nga kayo.”

“Uy defensive.” the friend teases. “Mukhang may favorite si Sir Mercado.”

Jeyric doesn’t answer. He just walks away—jaw tight, ears warm.