Not a frightened shout.
Not one full of anger.

A command.

Every teenager froze.

Their heads snapped toward the edge of the park just as the low growl of engines rose over the sound of rustling leaves.

Six black SUVs turned onto the gravel path in perfect formation — the type used for high-ranking military or federal transport. Their paint gleamed even under the dull, overcast sky. Tires crunched over loose stone. Engines rumbled in a synchronized chorus.

The vehicles came to a stop so sharply, so precisely, that the teenagers instinctively backed away.

Before the engines fully silenced, doors swung open in unison.

Men and women in crisp, dark uniforms stepped out — not police, not MPs.

Special Operations Command escorts.

And then the central SUV’s rear door opened.

A four-star general stepped out.

General Marcus Alden — a legend whose name was spoken with reverence in every military hall. His chest carried ribbons arranged like a mosaic of sacrifice. His hair was steel-gray, cut with uncompromising precision. And when he walked, it was with the certainty of a man who had spent decades leading armies.

His eyes locked onto the scene: