They slam me onto the table, and that rancid-ass stench of medicinal herbs punch me right in the face. My ribs screamin’ with every breath, blood still drippin’ from my arm, stainin’ up the white sheet like I ain’t already tore up enough. Medic don’t even look at me, just diggin’ through his tools like I’m some scrap metal he gotta hammer back into shape.

  "You recruits always show up half-dead," he mutters, all sour. "Can’t even handle a little training?"

  I glare at him but keep my mouth shut. This ain’t no lil’ trainin'. They had us runnin’ till our legs gave out, pushin’ till we couldn’t breathe, damn near drownin’ in sweat. Half the squad barely even walkin’. But what’s the point in sayin’ somethin’? Ain’t nobody tryna hear it.

  Then dude just grab my arm—no warnin’—and dump some stingin’-ass liquid straight into the wound.

  Pain hit me like a live wire, yankin’ the air right out my lungs. Vision go spotty. Muscles lock up like I just took a sledgehammer to the ribs.

  "Damn—!" I hiss, teeth clampin’ down so hard my jaw might crack. He just scoffs.

  "Oh, grow up," he says, unimpressed. "You’ll live."

  Then he get to stitchin’, raw as hell, draggin’ that needle through my skin like he patchin’ up a torn boot. No anesthetic. Nothin’. Every pull feel like he doin’ it on purpose, like he makin’ sure I feel every inch of that pain. My fingers dig into the table, jaw locked tight. Whole room blur for a second, heat pricklin’ at my skin.

  I breathe through it. Just another trial. Another test. I ain’t breakin’ here.

  Finally, he ties off the last stitch and slaps a bandage over it—hard.

  "There. Done."

  I let out a slow breath, sweat clingin’ to my back.

  He nods toward a tray with some kinda bowl on it, steam risin’ up. "Drink. It’ll numb the pain."

  I pick it up, scowlin’ at the thick, grayish soup sloshin’ inside. Smell like burnt rubber and shit.

  The medic raises a brow. "You’d rather just suffer?"

  Man, I shoulda. But instead, I take a sip.

  Regret. Instantly.

  The taste hit like rottin’ meat and straight-up chemicals. I damn near gag, but I choke it down. Few seconds later, the pain dull out, but not in a good way—it feel wrong, like my body ain’t even mine no more.

  The medic smirk, satisfied. "You’ll be back out there by morning."

  I don’t thank him. He don’t deserve it.

  I push off the table, but damn, my body feel wrong. Fingers tinglin’, stiff, like they forgot how to move. Stomach churnin’ slow and heavy, and for a second, I swear the floor tilt under my feet.

  I grip the table, blink hard. Room feel distant, like I’m watchin’ it through a busted screen.

  The medic just chuckles, already cleanin’ his tools. "Side effects. It'll pass. Probably."

  "Probably?" My voice sound far away.

  He shrugs.

  I exhale slow, jaw tight. Whatever in that soup, it’s messin’ with me.

  Shake my head. Push past it. Can’t stand here questionin’ it. I step outside, suck in that cold night air, but even that feel off. Like the whole world movin’ just a little too slow. I press a hand to my ribs. Still hurt.

  But the real damage ain’t somethin’ no stitches can fix.

  This place don’t train you. It break you. Grind you down till they see who still standin’. I done watched good soldiers drop, bodies twitchin’, and all they get is a look of disgust.

  Not fast enough. Not strong enough. Not worth rememberin’.

  For what?

  I clench my fists. This whole thing harder than it’s supposed to be. They ain’t buildin’ us up—they just seein’ who can survive.

  Then I hear it—this faint rurururu, all soft against the silence.

  I look up just in time to see a delivery drone swoop down, metal frame catchin’ the moonlight. It hovers for a second before droppin’ a small box right at my feet.

  The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

  I don’t move.

  The Delicacy System. That’s what they call it. Special drones for elite soldiers—the ones who earn rewards.

  This? This ain’t for me. Couldn’t be.

  I crouch down, run my fingers over the box. That sleek military frame still hummin’.

  Then why's my name scrawled across the top.

  It ain't printed either. Handwritten. Slanted, familiar.

  I already know who it’s from.

  I open it. Ain’t no fancy rations. No high-grade gear. Just a stack of letters.

  I pull out the first one. The handwriting too neat.

  I squint at the flourishes, tryin’ to piece the words together.

  Cherry.

  Of course.

  I force myself to focus, pickin’ apart the loops and curls.

  Vortex,

  I swear, things have gone to another level since you left. It’s like the world flipped upside down just to spite me.

  Klev’s latest project? He swears he saw some monster and now he’s obsessed with sculpting it. He says if he gets the details right, it’ll “mean something.” (It’s hideous. I hope he doesn’t expect me to compliment it.)

  As for Zett—

  I stop.

  Somethin’ about the way she wrote his name make my stomach twist.

  He’s going crazy. Worse than usual.

  You remember the blood oath? The one he did with you and Revilsa?

  Well, it’s been a day, and we haven’t seen him.

  We thought he’d come back, but nope. He’s still out there, training like a lunatic. Klev swears he saw him fighting trees another day—actual trees—because ‘it’s the only opponent that doesn't get scared off.’

  Zett’s going to get himself killed.

  I exhale slow, willin’ my pulse to steady.

  Zett, you idiot.

  I scan the rest of the letter—more updates, more reminders of home. The broken tech, the long days. Cherry tryna keep things together, barely holdin’ on.

  I can see it all clear as day.

  My fingers tighten around the page.

  I glance at my right palm. The scar burn with the memory.

  We swore we wasn’t gonna be just another nobody.

  And I swore I was gonna be a hero.

  Yet just minutes ago, I was sittin’ here complainin’. Talkin’ about how unfair this was. But Zett?

  Zett out there fightin’ trees, fightin’ himself, fightin’ for somethin’.

  Maybe I been forgettin’ what that feel like.

  Greatness ain’t meant to be easy.

  I exhale, close my eyes for a second. Then I fold the letter real careful, slidin’ it back into the box.

  I can’t stop here.

  I walk up to the bunker, and soon as I enter, the air switch up. Chatter cut. Heads turn. Eyes on me like I just walked in drippin’ gold. Some of ‘em sizing me up, tryna see what I’m on. Others? Straight hatin’.

  Can’t blame ‘em. If I was them, I’d hate me too.

  Comin’ first in today’s obstacle course wasn’t just a flex. It was a message. And messages got consequences.

  I don’t slow up. Just weave through the bodies sprawled ‘cross the metal floor, keepin’ my head high. My bunk up top. Lanny already stretched out underneath, hands tucked behind his head, lookin’ all kinds of lazy. As I climb up, he tilt his head, a smirk sittin’ on his face.

  “Look at you, golden boy,” he say, drawlin’. “First place and a fresh set of bruises? Really trying to make us all look bad, huh?”

  I don’t say nothin’. Just ease onto my bunk, but I don’t lay out. My hand come up instead, fingers tracing the faint scar cuttin’ across my palm.

  I gotta try even harder now.

  Huck crash onto Lanny’s bunk like a damn boulder, damn near knock the wind out his lungs.

  “Get the hell off me, you oaf—”

  “Nah,” Huck say, grinnin’ like he comfortable. “You are a good mattress.”

  Min-Joon pull up next, quiet as usual. His eyes linger on me a second longer than they should. Then he speak.

  “I just wanted to say thanks.”

  I arch a brow. “For what?”

  He shrug. “For being the kind of soldier who actually gives a damn.”

  I scoff, shakin’ my head. “You think I’m some pure-hearted hero or somethin’?”

  Min-Joon let out a dry chuckle. “Not exactly. But I’ve seen a lot of people who are only in this for themselves. You’re not one of them.”

  Huck, still half-suffocating Lanny, slap Min-Joon’s back. “Alright, wise one, tell us your tragic backstory.”

  Min-Joon sigh, the usual stiffness in his face slippin’ just a little.

  “Hard work,” he say. “That’s my story.”

  Lanny groan. “Sounds boring.”

  Min-Joon keep goin’. “My parents expected perfection. No breaks. No excuses. Just results. And I gave them that—for a while. Then it became too much.” His hands clench, then relax like he forcing it. “So I ran. Lived alone. Slacked off. Told myself I was free, but really, I was just scared of going back. I drowned it out with games, distractions… anything but responsibility.”

  He hesitate, then add, “Then my father died. And my mother asked me for one thing—to get a job.” His jaw tighten. “I had the build for this. I was good at shooting. So I signed up.” He laugh, but it’s empty. “Didn’t expect it to be so damn unfair. But I guess we all learn that sooner or later.”

  Huck pat his shoulder, quiet for once. Lanny still tryna push Huck off but ain't got the strength. “For the love of everything, move—”

  Instead of helpin’, Huck shift his weight, damn near kill Lanny on the spot.

  Lanny, red-faced and wheezing, shoot me a glare. “Alright, champion, your turn. What’s your story?”

  I freeze. My fingers curl, scar diggin’ into my palm.

  I don’t talk about my past.

  Not ‘cause I don’t wanna. But ‘cause I never had to. Nobody asked. Nobody cared.

  But now—

  Maybe I should.

  Maybe it’s time—

  A voice cut through the room.

  “Vortex.”

  One of the soldiers near the entrance. Tone unreadable.

  I frown. “What?”

  “Somebody's looking for you.”

  Shoulders lock up, muscles wired tight. Ain’t nobody ever looked for me with good news. I jump down, land light on my feet. On my way out, I tap Min-Joon’s shoulder—silent acknowledgement. Then I step outside.

  The second I do, somethin’ slam into my gut.

  Pain explode through me, straight up vicious. My breath tear out my chest. Knees buckle. Another hit—straight to the face, jaw snap sideways.

  Then another. Then another.

  I don’t even get a chance to move before they swarming.

  A fist crack against my ribs. A boot drive into my thigh. My body lurch, damn near drop, but I grit my teeth, refuse to fold.

  I don't last. I hit the mud hard, breath shakin’. They still goin’.

  Somebody inside the bunker shoulda heard this. Shoulda ran out. Shoulda stopped it.

  But instead—

  I hear voices.

  Singing.

  They covering it up.

  My blood chill.

  I try to push up, but a boot crash into my side, make me damn near curl up. Fingers claw at the dirt, but ain’t nothin’ to hold onto.

  World shrink down to just pain.

  I don’t know how long it last. But by the time they done, my body don’t even feel like mine no more.

  And this time it ain't 'cause of the medicine.

  I taste blood. Feel it hot on my lips. Head pounding. But I don’t make no sound.

  I just breathe.

  The bastards walk off, satisfied.

  And I stay there, in the mud, starin’ up at the sky.

  Going back to the medic?

  Not a way in hell.

  So I just stay there, in the mud, starin’ up at the sky—vowing this ain’t the end. 'Cause even when they break my body, they can’t break my will.