Olivia knelt, picked up the rope, and started over, her fingers moving methodically.
Marcus wasn't done. He kicked dirt onto her hands, coating the rope in grime. "Keep trying, princess," he said. "Maybe you'll get it by morning."
The group roared.
Olivia paused, her hands still, then looked up at him. "You done?" she asked, her voice quiet but sharp.
Marcus blinked, thrown off, but laughed it off.
She went back to work, her face unreadable, the rope clean again in seconds.
Later, when the drill ended, Marcus's own barrier was found loose, costing his squad points. No one saw Olivia near it, but Elena, watching from the sidelines, hid a small smile.
That night, in the barracks, Olivia sat on her bunk, pulling an old photo from her bag.
It was creased, the edges worn, showing a younger her standing next to a man in a black jacket. His face was blurred, but his posture, shoulders back, eyes sharp, felt like it carried weight.
She traced her finger over the photo, her lips pressing together, then tucked it away when she heard footsteps.
Lance walked by, tossing his towel over his shoulder. "Better sleep tight, Mitchell," he said. "Tomorrow's shooting. Don't choke."
Olivia didn't look at him. She lay back, hands behind her head, staring at the ceiling, her breathing slow and even.
The long-range shooting exam was a make-or-break moment. Five shots, 400 meters. Five bullseyes, or you're out.
The cadets lined up, nervous, fiddling with their scopes, whispering about wind speed.
Tara went first, missing two shots, her face pale as she stepped back. Lance hit four, cursing under his breath.
Then Olivia walked up.
Tara whispered to the girl next to her, "Bet she can't even hold it right."
Olivia settled into position, her movements calm, almost mechanical. Five shots. Five perfect hits, dead center. No hesitation, no scope adjustments.
The range officer blinked at the target, then called it out. "Mitchell, perfect score."
A colonel watching from a distance, an older man with gray hair and a chest full of medals, leaned forward.
"Who trained her?" he murmured to his aide. "That's a spec ops trigger."
Lance overheard and rolled his eyes. "Fluke," he said. "Let's see her in combat."
But during the equipment check after the range, the officer found Olivia's rifle had a misaligned sight nobody else had noticed. She'd still hit every shot, compensating perfectly.
The officer shook his head, muttering, "That's not luck. That's skill."
In the mess hall the next day, Olivia's tray was empty. She'd been last in line, and the food had run out. She sat anyway, sipping water, her face calm.
A group of cadets led by a girl named Jenna saw her and decided to have fun.