The training yard stretched wide, a patchwork of dirt and gravel scarred by boot prints and sweat. Targets riddled with bullet holes lined the far end. Rope climbs swayed in the hot wind. The smell of mud, gunpowder, and exhaustion hung heavy over the rookies gasping for breath.

“Work on it!” Lieutenant Cole Harrington’s voice cut through the noise like a blade, sharp enough to make every head snap toward him. He didn’t wait for acknowledgement, didn’t wait for a “Yes, sir.” He was already moving, long strides carrying him down the line of recruits. His boots struck the ground in rhythm, steady and commanding, a sound that echoed in the skulls of every rookie present.

He was a different man in every corner of the field. To one squad, he was fire and fury, spitting orders that left them trembling. To another, he was cold and calculated, pointing out flaws with surgical precision, making them fix the same mistake until their bodies screamed for mercy. Harrington wasn’t here to babysit. He was here to forge weapons. Rumors about him traveled faster than orders. The rookies whispered that he’d fought in three conflicts no one was supposed to know about. That he carried scars he never spoke of. That he’d been the only survivor of a mission where his entire unit went silent. No one dared ask him if the stories were true—but every time they saw his eyes, those hard, unblinking eyes, they believed them. “Down, Harrington style!” he barked at a recruit who dared to sag mid push-up. The rookie flinched, then dropped flat to the ground and hammered out reps like his life depended on it. In some ways, it did. Harrington’s standards were legendary. Failure wasn’t punished with humiliation—it was punished with repetition. Again and again, until the weakness bled out of their muscles.

“Formation!” he roared across the yard. Dust rose as the rookies scrambled into position. Their boots weren’t in sync, their stances uneven. Harrington’s jaw tightened. He paced like a wolf circling prey. “This isn’t a parade ground. This isn’t for show. You want to walk into combat alive? You learn to move as one. If you break formation here, you’ll break it out there—and that means casualties.”

The rookies shifted, corrected, fought to hold the line. And when, by some miracle, they managed a clean pivot, Harrington gave the faintest nod. No smile, no praise—but the rookies felt it. That single nod from him was worth more than a medal. Around them, the grounds were alive with training. Gunfire cracked from the range, shouts echoed off climbing frames, and the sun bore down mercilessly. Harrington thrived in it. He lived in the chaos, and the chaos obeyed him. Every recruit could feel it—being under his command wasn’t just training. It was survival. Harrington didn’t teach them to be good soldiers. He taught them to be the kind of soldiers who came back breathing. And as he moved on to the next squad, boots steady, voice like thunder rolling over the field, the rookies stole quick glances at each other. Some feared him. Some hated him. But none doubted him.

Lieutenant Cole Harrington was the storm they would learn to weather. And if they survived his training, they’d be ready for anything.