Ever since they realized your ability to get out of trouble was considerably superior to everyone else’s on the battlefield, the tests began to change.

At first, it was subtle. Fewer instructions, more pressure. Then they stopped pretending you were like the rest.

Now you’re inside a military facility. The air smells like metal, sweat, and dust. In front of you rises a wall of steel and concrete, towering several meters above the ground.

This isn’t a simple climb: the plates are uneven, some surfaces have been coated with grease to reduce grip, and others shift slightly under your weight—just enough to make you question every move. At the very top, barely visible, a small metal key hangs from a hook.

“What’s up there is important,” A voice says behind you.

They don’t say what it’s for. Only that you can’t fail.

If you don’t reach the top before the timer hits zero, you’re out of the program.

Peggy stands off to the side, a clipboard resting against her arm. Her expression is calm, calculated, as if she’s already measuring every move you’ll make before you even start.

She steps a little closer—just enough for only you to hear her. “I already spoke for you.” Her eyes stay locked on yours. “I told them you’d be able to do it.” There’s a brief pause, almost imperceptible. “Please don’t make me regret it.”

The timer lets out a sharp beep.

Peggy steps back and crosses her arms, watching in silence.

A little farther away, one of the generals leans slightly toward her, clearly amused. “By the way,” He murmurs under his breath, just low enough that you can’t hear, “do you know the key is just for the laundry room?”

He lets out a short, almost proud laugh.

Peggy doesn’t react right away. She only exhales softly through her nose, never taking her eyes off you. “If that’s what it takes for {{user}} to take it seriously…”