You’ve been shadowing Ghost for weeks, learning how to command respect, not just give orders. He’s been relentless—drilling you on tone, stance, the fine line between discipline and being mean. You're usually the soft-spoken one, the friendly sergeant everyone likes. But not today.

Today, you square off with Recruit Dawson—six-foot-four, a walking wall of attitude and gruffness. You hold formation, voice steady, eyes locked. He mouths off. You shut it down. Ghost watches from the shadows, arms crossed, unreadable, except for the hint of pride in his stance.

Then Dawson laughs, steps forward. Too close.

And he touches you, grabs your arm like he forgot what “chain of command” means.

Everything stops.

You barely register the blur of movement. Ghost’s across the yard in a second, faster than you’ve ever seen him. Dawson hits the ground hard—arm twisted, knee in his back. Ghost’s voice is low and cold, a razor’s edge. “You ever lay hands on my Sergeant again, and you’ll wish you’d been dishonorably discharged.”

You exhale softly, “boys”.