Olivia didn’t offer any defense or try to explain what had truly transpired. She simply rejoined the formation, her jaw set tightly, and continued running. If the twisted ankle was causing her pain, her slight limp was barely perceptible.
When the run finally concluded, Harrow pointed a finger directly at her. «Five extra laps. Move it.»
The others watched, some of them smirking, as Olivia began to run again. Her breath now came in short, ragged gasps, her face slick with sweat, but she completed every single lap without a word of complaint.
When she finally finished, she stood with her hands on her knees, gulping for air, but no one offered her a sip of water. Madison tossed an empty plastic bottle at her feet. «Hydrate with air,» she sneered, laughing at her own cruelty.
Olivia picked up the bottle, slowly crushed it in her hand, and dropped it into a nearby trash bin. She didn’t make a sound.
During a night drill designed to simulate combat conditions, the cadets were tasked with establishing a defensive perimeter under the duress of simulated enemy fire. Flares illuminated the night sky, and instructors shouted contradictory orders to create a state of controlled chaos.
Olivia worked alone, securing a rope barrier with steady, practiced hands, while the sounds of simulated explosions echoed around them. Marcus Webb, stocky and boisterous, decided she would make an easy target for some evening entertainment. He grabbed her rope and yanked it free, tossing it into the mud with an exaggerated display of carelessness.
«Oops,» he said, grinning at his friends. «I guess you’re not cut out for this, huh?»
The other cadets nearby laughed, the beams of their flashlights bobbing as they enjoyed the spectacle. Olivia knelt in the mud, retrieved the rope, and started her work again. Her fingers moved methodically, each knot tied with precision despite the chaos surrounding them.
Marcus wasn’t finished. He kicked dirt onto her hands, coating the rope in grime. «Keep trying, princess,» he taunted. «Maybe you’ll get it done by morning.»
The group roared with laughter, but Olivia paused, her hands going still, and looked up at him. Her voice was quiet, yet it carried an edge sharp enough to cut through the noise.
«Are you done?»
Marcus blinked, momentarily thrown off by the quiet intensity in her gaze, but he quickly laughed it off and walked away.
Olivia returned to her task, her face unreadable, and had the rope barrier cleaned and securely in place in a matter of seconds. Later, when the drill concluded and the scores were tallied, Marcus discovered that his own barrier had come loose during the exercise, costing his squad valuable points.
No one had seen Olivia anywhere near his section of the perimeter, but Elena, observing from the sidelines, allowed herself a small, knowing smile.
That night in the barracks, Olivia sat on her narrow bunk, pulling a faded photograph from her bag. It was creased and worn at the edges, depicting a younger version of herself standing beside a man in a black tactical jacket. His face was intentionally blurred in the photo, but his posture—shoulders squared, eyes sharp—conveyed an unmistakable aura of authority and danger.
She traced her finger over the image, her lips pressed together in a gesture that could have been remembrance or regret, then quickly tucked it away as she heard approaching footsteps. Lance walked past, tossing a towel over his shoulder with casual arrogance.
«You’d better sleep tight, Mitchell,» he said, not even bothering to look at her. «Tomorrow is the shooting range. Try not to embarrass yourself any more than you already have.»
Olivia didn’t respond. She lay back on the thin mattress, her hands clasped behind her head, and stared at the ceiling. Her breathing was slow and even, but her eyes remained open long after the lights in the barracks were extinguished.
The long-range shooting examination was designed to be a definitive make-or-break moment. Five shots at a target 400 meters away; five perfect bullseyes were required to pass. Anything less resulted in immediate dismissal from the program. The pressure was intentional, and it was brutal.
The cadets lined up at the firing range, a palpable sense of nervous energy crackling through the air. They fidgeted with their rifle scopes, whispered anxiously to one another about wind speed and atmospheric conditions, their earlier confidence having all but evaporated.
Madison went first, her blonde ponytail whipping in the breeze. She missed two of her five shots completely, her face as pale as chalk as she stepped back from the firing line.
Lance managed to hit four of the targets, cursing under his breath at the near-miss that could potentially cost him his high standing in the program. Then, it was Olivia’s turn. Madison whispered to the cadet beside her, her voice just loud enough to carry.
«I bet she can’t even hold the rifle properly.»
Olivia settled into position behind the rifle, her movements calm and almost mechanical. She didn’t waste time adjusting the scope, didn’t take any practice swings, or test the wind. She simply aimed, took a breath, and fired.
Five shots, five perfect hits, all dead center. There was no hesitation between shots, no adjustments to the scope, and no visible effort. Just a cold, mechanical precision that left everyone staring in stunned silence.
The range officer blinked at the target display, then at Olivia, then back at the display as if his eyes were deceiving him. «Mitchell,» he announced, his voice carrying across the suddenly quiet range. «Perfect score.»
A colonel who had been observing the exercise from a distance, an older man with steel-gray hair and a chest adorned with ribbons, leaned forward with a newfound interest. «Who trained her?» he murmured to his aide, his voice barely audible but laced with a sense of urgency.
The aide shook his head. «There’s no information in her file, sir. But that trigger control? That’s not something you learn in civilian training.»
Lance overheard the exchange and rolled his eyes dramatically. «Lucky shots,» he announced, loud enough for Olivia to hear. «Let’s see her do something that actually matters.»
But during the mandatory equipment check that followed the shooting exercise, the range officer discovered something that sent a chill down his spine. Olivia’s rifle had a misaligned sight—a defect so subtle that no one else had noticed it, yet significant enough that it should have made accurate shooting an impossibility.
She had compensated for the defect perfectly, adjusting her aim through muscle memory and instinct alone. The officer shook his head, muttering to himself, «That’s not luck. That’s pure skill.»
The mess hall incident the following evening was the culmination of days of escalating tension. Olivia had been the last person in the chow line, and by the time she reached the serving area, all the food was gone.
She sat at her usual corner table regardless, sipping on a glass of water, her face calm despite her empty tray. A group of cadets led by Jenna Walsh—tall, smug, and possessing a laugh that sounded like fingernails on a chalkboard—spotted an opportunity for entertainment.
Jenna walked over and deliberately dropped a half-eaten apple onto Olivia’s empty tray. «Here,» she said, her voice dripping with theatrical pity. «We can’t have you starving, can we? You need your strength for… what is it you do, exactly? Carry our bags?»
The table behind her erupted in laughter. Cameras were once again produced, recording what they assumed would be another moment of humiliation for their social media feeds.
Olivia looked at the apple, then at Jenna, her eyes steady and unflinching. «Thanks,» she said simply, picking it up and taking a slow, deliberate bite.
Jenna’s smile faltered. She had expected tears, anger, or some kind of reaction she could mock. Instead, she was met with this unnerving calm that made her feel as though she was missing a crucial piece of the puzzle.
The group continued to laugh, but the sound was forced now, tinged with uncertainty. Olivia finished the entire apple, core and all, then set her tray aside and stood to leave.
As she brushed past Jenna, her shoulder made the slightest contact, just enough to make the taller woman take an involuntary step back. For a moment, the mess hall fell silent, everyone watching this petite woman who had somehow made herself the center of attention without uttering more than a few words.
