As we approach the administration desk, the warden reads my information aloud in a cold, disinterested tone, her voice devoid of warmth. She doesn't even glance up from the files on her desk, her blue-rimmed spectacles reflecting the dim, fluorescent lights overhead.
"Jules Falcon, age 24, Female, height: 5'4," she says, barely pausing as she moves on to the next.
She flips the page with an indifferent flick of her wrist, continuing without a trace of emotion.
"Date transferred January 14, specialty: weapon mastery."
No reaction. No acknowledgment. Nothing but her monotone voice filling the room, the air around us thick with tension. She moves on to Grace without skipping a beat.
"Grace Bishop, age 25, Female, height: 5'5," she recites, her voice sharp.
She looks up this time, her green eyes narrowing as she glances at us over the top of her glasses. There's a flicker of something—annoyance, perhaps—but it passes quickly as she slams the files down.
"Date transferred January 14, specialty: weapon mastery and stealth," she continues, her tone making it clear we're just two more numbers in an endless stack of files.
"The two of you, building five, section A3." She dismisses us like we're a minor inconvenience, her words as sharp and final as the slam of the files.
Without another word, she signals to the tall, dark-skinned woman beside her. The woman is intimidating, an M16 slung over her shoulder with the ease of someone who's more than familiar with it. Her eyes meet ours, and with a single stiff nod, she turns, motioning for us to follow.
We fall in line behind her, descending the cold metal stairs from the fourth floor of the administration block. Every step echoes in the narrow stairwell, the weight of the place pressing down on us. The walls are lined with rules, protocols etched in stone for every recruit.
Royale Military Facility Rules and Regulations:
Recruits are forbidden to leave the facility without explicit permission from a superior.
Any act of violence against another recruit will result in immediate isolation.
All recruits must participate in weapons handling and combat training as assigned. Communication devices are banned unless cleared by an instructor.
Daily training schedules are non-negotiable and must be followed to the letter.
Curfew is 9:00 PM. Any recruit outside quarters after this time will face severe punishment.
Male and female interactions are prohibited after 8:00 PM without the presence of a handler.
Uniforms must be worn during all training sessions without exception.
Failure to report for training will result in solitary confinement.
Weapons can only be used in designated areas under direct supervision.
Unauthorized relationships are strictly forbidden.
Recruits must address all superiors with respect and without question.
Unauthorized contact with outside personnel is strictly forbidden.
Physical altercations with any handler will result in immediate expulsion.
No recruit is to possess any form of unauthorized weaponry.
Any attempt to sabotage training or the facility's infrastructure will be met with severe consequences.
Insubordination during drills or exercises will lead to extreme disciplinary measures.
Recruits are required to maintain their assigned living quarters to military standards.
Lateness to any scheduled activity is grounds for additional training under extreme conditions.
All recruits must abide by facility-wide lockdowns without exception.
Punishments for Failure to Adhere:
Solitary confinement for no less than 72 hours.
Extended training sessions under extreme physical and mental stress.
Revocation of privileges, including access to common areas and personal time.
Immediate expulsion for repeated or grievous violations.
We step out of the administration building and into a narrow walkway, the path flanked by towering electric fences that hum ominously. The walkway resembles a prison yard more than anything else, the air heavy with rules and restrictions. On the left, a massive electric fence divides the boys' section from ours, stretching high with two watchtowers looming like silent sentinels, their bright lights sweeping the grounds below.
It's only 10:00 AM, and as we pass the male quarters, I notice a group of recruits doing laps on the front grounds, their feet pounding the earth in unison. There are at least twenty of them, male and female recruits alike, running as one unit. Five handlers circle them like hawks, barking commands with sharp whistles, their voices cracking through the morning air like whips.
We finally reach the female compound, and it's larger than I expected—a vast courtyard surrounded by eight white-painted buildings, all arranged in neat rows. The first building we pass is marked A2, the next, B3.
Our escort stops in front of a group of three girls standing outside the building. Their blue uniforms are spotless, each of them standing with perfect posture.
"The new recruits for building A3," our escort announces without emotion.
The girls salute, their eyes scanning us quickly. Our escort doesn't wait for a response, already turning on her heel. "Get changed and join the trainers," she orders, her tone final.
As she leaves, I hear a familiar voice.
"You're finally here."
I turn, and there she is—Vivian. She smiles warmly, walking towards me with open arms. She's three years older, but we both come from the third family branch. Ever since we were kids, she insisted I call her "big sister."
"I guess I couldn't escape it after all," I say, smiling as she pulls me into a tight hug.
"It's good to have you here," she says softly, turning her attention to Grace.
"Oh, this is Grace Bishop," I introduce. "She's from the lesser branch of the family."
Vivian extends her hand to Grace, offering a warm smile. "We don't care about family ranks here. We're all training to protect the family, and that makes us the same."
That's always been Vivian's way—warm, accepting, and impossible not to like.
"Come on, I'll show you your rooms."
We follow her through the courtyard, the cold morning air biting at our skin. Behind the dorms, I spot three buildings painted a dull brown, towering four stories high.
"That's where we have our theory classes," Vivian explains, noticing my curiosity.
"Call me impressed," Grace remarks, looking around. "I didn't think it would be this big."
Vivian laughs softly. "You haven't seen the training grounds yet—or the guys' section."
When we reach Block A3, the difference is immediately noticeable. It's only three stories tall, unlike the others, and much longer. Vivian leads us up to the third floor and stops in front of Room A3.2.
"The previous occupants graduated," Vivian says as she opens the door.
The room is simple but spacious. Three beds are lined up neatly, each made with crisp white sheets. In the middle of the room, a small coffee table is flanked by two old but comfortable sofas. A screen hangs on the wall, and a small shelf near the door is stacked with books and training manuals. Despite the rigid military feel, there's a calmness to the space.
"Those of us from the family get a few privileges," Vivian says with a faint smile, her eyes softening. "you girls dress and meet me downstairs, we can't anger the instructors on your first day,"
They walk out as we both fall on our beds, exhaling deeply.
"I am still not sure if am ready to become one of their dogs," Grace says.
My eyes stare at the rotating fan.
"What other choice do we have?" I sigh hard, "Here we are just to train to be theirs, it is just the way we were born,"
Just then she starts laughing and I join.
"I don't care but I will live the best life even if I become just a dog," Grace screams.