After changing into a long-sleeved green shirt and heavy military training pants, paired with black boots, we head to the training grounds. The late afternoon sun casts long shadows across the field. Most of the trainers take a break, lounge around, or spar half-heartedly. My boots crunch on the gravel path as we approach the rest of the recruits. To be honest, this ground is much bigger than Angel's, I can see well build high jumps, well marked truck and a visible forest stretching towards the now clear sea.
"Halt!!!"
A tall, muscular man with a scar running down his cheek spots us instantly, his sharp gaze cutting through the air.
"Why are the two of you late?!" he bellows, his voice a whip in the wind.
"They have just joined us, sir!" Vivian replies with a louder voice, one trained and honed for discipline. "Permission to present their documents, sir!" Her words echo in the throughout the field, and she stands tall, and firm.
He doesn't respond. Instead, he blows the whistle around his neck with such force I feel the ringing in my ears. Vivian salutes sharply, turns on her heel in a perfectly timed marching step, and salutes again before heading toward him. She hands him our documents with both hands, rigid and formal. Every movement screams military precision. It's almost boring—the level of respect, the rank acknowledgment. But, well, you follow the rules.
She takes two steps back, salutes once more, and rejoins us without breaking a sweat. The instructor doesn't bother reading the papers; he just shuffles them around before gripping them tightly behind his back.
"Introduce yourselves!" he shouts, his voice rattling our nerves, or at least mine. I step forward, just like we did at Angel's. My hands behind as I stand at a tease.
"Jules Falcon, sir!" I shout back, my voice carrying across the grounds. Before going to attention stance.
"Grace Bishop, sir!" Grace steps beside me, her voice just as loud.
The instructor scowls. He glares at us like we've personally offended him. The other recruits start chuckling, some mumbling under their breaths.
"You call that an introduction?!" His voice shakes the ground as he turns, his gaze piercing through us. "Vincent!"
"Yes, sir!" A medium-height boy, dark-skinned with a lean frame, stands up instantly. He looks a bit nervous, maybe weak-willed, but there's something about him that feels...different. He doesn't look like the bodyguard type, but I'd heard they took all kinds of applicants.
"Show them how it's done!" the instructor barks.
"Sir, yes, sir!" Vincent snaps, taking three sharp salutes, his voice trembling but gaining strength. "Vincent Stein, age 26! I love eating green grams and some veggies!" he screams with newfound power. The recruits shift in their seats, paying attention. "I studied in Mosclin and earned a degree in medicine!" He takes a deep breath before bellowing the next part. "I decided to become a bodyguard to make first money, and my type of woman is neither tall nor short, but with good bouncing butts!"
The last part of his introduction sends a ripple of laughter through the crowd. Some of the recruits can barely contain themselves, and the instructor stands there, expressionless, arms crossed, waiting for the noise to die down.
Grace and I exchange a glance, hers mirroring my disbelief. This...this was absurd. Vincent stands at attention, his face completely serious, as if nothing ridiculous had just come out of his mouth.
"Did you hear that?!" The instructor's voice cuts through the laughter.
We hesitate, unsure if we should actually respond.
"Are you two deaf?!" He turns to Vincent, who's still standing firm. "Vincent, repeat it louder this time!"
"Sir, yes, sir!" Vincent screams again, this time with even more volume, the recruits laughing even louder as he shouts his entire introduction all over again. The absurdity of it all nearly makes me break into a smile, but I keep it together.
"Did you hear him now?!" The instructor's eyes narrow on us as the laughter dies down. He's not amused, but the recruits are.
"Yes, sir!" we respond in unison.
"Good. Bishop, you're next!"
Grace steps forward, her expression hard as steel. "Grace Bishop, 25 years old! I love blueberries, and I attended military school! Earned a certificate in weapon mastery" She takes a breath, but falters, "I…I..."
Laughter erupts from the recruits again.
"I...I...what?" the instructor snaps. "Are you a stammerer?!"
Grace straightens her back. "I like tall, muscular men with good reflexes," she says quickly, and the roaring laughter of the recruits fills the training ground again.
"Next!" the instructor yells, and I step forward, trying to keep my nerves in check.
"Jules Falcon, age 24!" I shout with confidence. "I love eating pasta and drinking red wine. I also attended military school and achieved a perfect score in hand-to-hand combat and weapon mastery. My choice of man would neither be too tall nor too short. He should be cool, with an understanding mind, and dedicated to my well-being!"
Laughter swells up again, louder this time. It feels like I just offered myself up for a roast. Grace shoots me a sympathetic look. It doesn't help.
The instructor marches over to me, his heavy boots thudding against the ground with every step. His eyes bore into mine. "Cadet Jules!" he yells, standing uncomfortably close. "Are you certain that's what you want?" His voice is gruff, and there's a faint smirk on his lips, as if he's about to make an example out of me.
I hesitate, unsure of his meaning. Before I can answer, he barks out again, "Gery!"
Out of nowhere, a German shepherd comes bounding toward us, its dark coat glistening under the sun. It stops at the instructor's side, alert and obedient.
"Meet Gery, your new boyfriend," he says with a smug grin. The dog barks in response. "He will be solely dedicated to you, just like you wanted!" He's mocking me, the recruits are barely able to contain themselves.
"Sir—" I begin, but he cuts me off.
"Don't 'sir' me! Drop to the ground and give me twenty!" He commands, his gaze unwavering.
I drop instantly, hitting the ground with precision and begin the push-ups. Twenty was nothing—I was used to this—but before I could even finish, I hear him barking another order.
"Bishop, get down here too!" he yells. "Another twenty! For both of you!"
Grace drops next to me without hesitation. We power through the extra twenty like it's a walk in the park. But just as we finish, he adds more.
"Fifty sit-ups, now!" His voice looms over us.
Fifty sit-ups, no big deal. My muscles move mechanically, every repetition firm, but it doesn't stop there.
"Ten laps around the grounds!" he yells.
We get to our feet and start running. My breathing stays steady as we circle the grounds, the other recruits watching, laughing. It's meant to break us, but it's just training—nothing we can't handle.
By the time we finish the ten laps, he's already lining up more orders, shouting about lunges, squats, and burpees. Each command is met without hesitation, but after two solid hours, I start feeling the weight in my limbs. My muscles ache, and sweat drips down my back, but I push through, determined not to break. The recruits are no longer laughing—they've been dragged into the exercises with us.
Now, it's a full-blown marathon.
We raced across the field as the afternoon sun dipped lower on the horizon, casting long shadows over the dusty ground. Vivian wasn't part of it, her attention occupied in conversation with another female instructor who had just arrived.
Prrrrrrr!!!!!
"You call that running?! Pick up the pace, or it's no supper for you useless pigs!" The instructor's voice boomed, followed by another sharp blast of the whistle. "Marcus! What in the actual hell are you pulling?!" he barked at the only boy in a tracksuit. His curly afro bounced with every sluggish step. The boy looked pitiful—way out of his depth and about to collapse on the fifth lap. What a joke.
"Hey, new girl," a voice from behind joined the mix. "Have you trained before?"
"Why do you ask?" I turned to face him, eyeing the well-built guy keeping an effortless pace beside me. He was clearly suited for this kind of thing, except for the unfortunate carrot-colored hair that clashed with his rugged demeanor.
"The way you handled those orders—it's like you're used to it. Military background?"
"You could say that."
He glanced at me, then refocused on the path ahead. "You're even prettier in person."
I raised an eyebrow. "Excuse me?"
"Your cousin talked about you a lot," he said, a smirk creeping onto his face. "I'm Benny, by the way. Friends with Damian."
"Oh, right," I muttered, realizing I hadn't seen Damian. "Has he found a way to dodge this exercise?"
"Not quite," Benny replied, his smirk widening. "Guess you didn't hear, but your cousin was caught *disciplining* some recruits. He's been suspended."
He hasn't given up his bullying ways. This guy too has it. That unsettling aura of his—it seeps through every gesture as he serves me, making my skin crawl. I've encountered men like him before, especially in the military—always circling, eager for an opportunity to lure me into bed. But I can't entirely blame them. When I'm in uniform, my hair pulled back in a tight ponytail, I know I look stunning. I don't need validation to recognize it—I exude confidence, and it's obvious. I'm desirable, but over time, I've had to build thick walls. Too many weren't interested in more than a fling or a casual one-night stand. And that? That's not me.
This version enhances
Prrrrr!!!!
"In one line everyone exits the ground!!"