Olivia stopped, her eyes following the scraps as they fluttered away. She looked at Kyle, her face blank, and said, “Hope you know your way back.” Then she turned and kept moving, her pace unchanged.

Kyle’s laughter faltered, but his group kept jeering, their voices echoing through the trees.

The rifle disassembly drill came that afternoon, and it was a wake-up call. The cadets had 2 minutes to take apart an M4 carbine, clean it, and reassemble it. Most struggled, their fingers fumbling with the pins, swearing as parts slipped. Lance finished in a messy 1:43, grinning like he’d aced. Tara scraped by at 1:59, her hands shaking as she snapped the last piece in place.

Then Olivia stepped up. She didn’t rush, didn’t hesitate. Her hands moved like they were following a script—pin out, bolt free, parts laid out in a perfect grid. Fifty-two seconds. Not a single mistake.

Sergeant Pulk, the instructor, stared at the timer, then at her. “Mitchell,” he said, his voice low. “Where’d you learn to do that?”