Jenna, tall and smug, with a laugh that carried, walked over and dropped a half-eaten apple onto Olivia's tray.
"Here," she said, her voice dripping with pity. "Can't have you starving, right? You need strength to, what, carry our bags?"
The table behind her burst into laughter.
Olivia looked at the apple, then at Jenna, her eyes steady. "Thanks," she said, picking it up and taking a slow bite.
Jenna's smile faltered. She'd expected a reaction, not this. The group kept laughing, but it was forced now.
Olivia finished the apple, core and all, and set the tray aside. As she stood to leave, she brushed past Jenna, her shoulder grazing her just enough to make Jenna step back.
The room went quiet for a moment, watching her go.
The combat simulation was the real test. One-on-one, hand-to-hand, no weapons.
Olivia was paired against Lance, who towered over her, his fists clenched, a grin spreading across his face.
Before the whistle blew, he charged, grabbing her collar and slamming her against the wall. Her shirt tore, the fabric ripping from her shoulder to her back, exposing a faded black tattoo across her scapula.
The squad burst into laughter.
"She's inked up, too," Tara jeered. "What is this, a biker gang?"
Lance leaned in, his face inches from hers. "This isn't daycare, Mitchell. It's a battlefield. Go home, rookie."
Olivia didn't move, her eyes locked on his, steady, unblinking.
"Let go," she said, her voice low.
Lance laughed, but his grip loosened, just for a second.
She stepped back and turned, and the torn shirt fell lower, revealing the full tattoo: a coiled black viper with a shattered skull.
The yard went silent.
The colonel, the one who'd been watching, stepped forward, his boots crunching on the gravel. His eyes widened, his face pale.
"Who gave you the right to wear that mark?" he asked, his voice shaking.
Olivia stood there, her back straight, the tattoo stark against her skin.
"I didn't ask for it," she said quietly. "It was given by Ghost Viper himself. I trained under him for six years."
The colonel froze, then straightened, his hand snapping to his forehead in a salute.
The other officers stared, their mouths open. Lance stumbled back, his face drained of color.
An aide whispered, "No one bears that tattoo unless they're his final student."
Tara's smirk vanished. She looked away, her hands trembling.
During a strategy briefing the next morning, Olivia sat in the back, her notebook open, her pen moving quickly.
The instructor, a stern woman named Major Klein, was explaining defensive tactics when she called on Olivia, her tone sharp.
"Mitchell, you got something to add, or are you just doodling back there?"
The room turned, expecting her to shrink.
Olivia looked up, her pen still, and said, "Your flank's exposed on the left. You'd lose half your unit in an ambush."