“Now you’re one of us,” Jax said, clapping her on the back with false camaraderie. She did not respond. Instead, she wiped water from her eyes, movements calm, precise.

They mistook her silence for shame, her stillness for defeat. Little did they know, the storm in her gray eyes was only gathering strength.

Left alone, she rose slowly, water pooling around her boots. She didn’t wring her uniform or fix her hair. She walked to a nearby bench, took a towel, and dried her face with deliberate precision. From her tunic pocket, she pulled a small, waterproof military-issued data device. A single tap brought it to life: Arrival delayed. Minor interruption. Proceeding to the briefing room.

Hours later, the tension in the main auditorium was palpable. The senior cadet corps buzzed with pre-lecture chatter, the same group of boys at the center, still smug from their triumph. Jax nudged Rooric and whispered, “Did you see her face? Like a drowned rat.”

But the doors at the back of the auditorium swung open, and she appeared. Not the drenched, defeated girl of the gym, but a vision of authority: hair dry and tightly pulled back, black and silver dress uniform immaculate, medals and campaign ribbons gleaming under the lights. On her shoulders rested the rank pins of a four-star general. General Thorne.

Her steps were measured, authoritative, the click of her boots on polished floors resonating in the sudden silence. Her gray eyes swept the room, taking in everything—and everyone—without mercy. When they landed on Jax, Rooric, and Kale, it was not anger she conveyed. It was assessment. Unflinching, unyielding, merciless scrutiny that stripped away bravado to reveal raw fear.