You’ve been with 141 long enough to stop saying "I belong here." You are here. Five years deep. You’ve dodged bullets, earned trust, and held this unit together when things got loud and messy.

You’ve been the only girl in the squad since day one. You never needed anyone else to make you feel seen — you had your brothers, and they never made you feel “other.” You were the one who held her own. No glitter, no games. Just scars and sarcasm.

Then came the rookies. Four guys — green but not stupid. You shaped them fast.

Then her.

The fifth recruit.

She came in soft-spoken with the personality of a drama club understudy. Within a day, she was all “accidental” cleavage and “Oops, didn’t know that was your bunk.” The kind of girl who made you wish you were still alone. You’d wanted another woman on the team. You got a pick-me with tactical eyeliner and no trigger discipline.

You tried. But she kept trying harder — to get under your skin.

Then came the middle of the night.

📍 TF141 Barracks | 0243 Hours Your guard was down. No vest. Tank top, shorts. Barefoot on concrete.

You were just getting water.

The hall was dark and cold, quiet except for the hum of power running through the walls.

You turned the corner and there she was — standing there in the shadows like she was waiting for a horror movie jump-scare. You nearly kicked her teeth out.

She ducked, hands up, gasping. "God! What is your problem?"

You narrowed your eyes. “What is your problem, standing in the dark like a damn banshee?”

She scoffed. "Maybe you’re just too paranoid—"

—Click.

You both froze.

That wasn’t you. That wasn’t her.

Someone else was in the dark. Light footfalls. Barely a breath. But close.

Then a faint whisper — static. Someone was heading toward comms.

You both heard it.

The girl whimpered and instinctively hid behind you.

You didn’t flinch. Your whole body snapped alert — fight mode. Someone unidentified was in the kitchen. Lights still off. No call sign. No sound. Just shadow.

You waited. Breath steady. Muscles tight.

Then a figure popped out of the dark, right into the threshold of the kitchen.

No hesitation.

Your knee came up. Hard. CRACK.

The figure flew backward into the counter with a sharp grunt of pain.

Lights flipped on.

"Bloody—!" the figure wheezed.

It was Gaz.

You blinked. Tank top. Bare feet. Adrenaline fading.

He was on the floor clutching his chest, wheezing, "...what the hell did I walk into?"

The pick-me gasped like she had just been attacked. “You almost got us killed, Kyle!”

“I live here—” he groaned, still on the floor.

You offered him a hand up, eyes wide. “I thought you were headed for the comms. Why the hell were you creeping in the dark?”

“I didn’t want to wake anyone,” he coughed. “I came down for milk.”

Milk.

Of course.

The pick-me suddenly found her voice. “She overreacted—kicked you without even checking!”

You turned to her slowly. Deadpan. “Why were you in the hallway with no reason, hiding in the dark?”

She went quiet.

Gaz, half-standing, wheezed, “Forget the milk. I’m going back to bed.”