"He apologized for you bumping into him!"
Tarrin tensed. His shoulders stiffened, muscles coiling out of habit more than thought.
'Great. Just what I needed. A drunk hothead starting shit over nothing.'
One of the recruits—barely standing straight, stinking of cheap liquor—slurred out, "What'd you say?"
'Four of them. Two of us.' Tarrin's eyes flicked between them, sizing up the odds. 'Not great.'
He stepped in quickly, voice calm but firm. "Easy now. No point getting reported to the sergeants over a bump, right?"
That word—sergeants—worked like a charm. The recruits hesitated, glancing at one another. But then the boldest of the bunch spat on the floor and said,
"Fine. Get your loudmouth to apologize, and we'll call it even."
Tarrin sighed, already turning to Riko. "Just let it—"
But before the words could leave his lips, he caught a blur of designer fabric in the corner of his eye.
Shit.
Riko was already swinging.
The punch landed clean—a sharp hook to the jaw of the loudmouth. The guy's head snapped sideways with a wet thud.
"You fucking bitch," Riko growled, his voice suddenly cold.
Tarrin blinked. 'Yep. Definitely not making it back without a fight now.'
Tarrin moved before anyone else could react.
One step, two—then his boot drove into a recruit's knee with practiced precision. The guy crumpled with a sharp grunt, landing hard.
Riko turned, clearly about to say something—probably some "I had that one" bullshit—but Tarrin shut him down with a sharp glare.
'Shut the fuck up.'
The remaining trio snapped out of their drunken stupor.
"The fuck, man?! Get off him!" barked the one in the middle, a thin scar slicing down his neck like a drawn line.
They charged together, sloppy but fueled by pride and booze. Tarrin braced, but Riko was already gone—fast, a blur of motion and fists.
For someone dressed like a poser, the guy moved like he'd been brawling since birth.
Tarrin turned his focus on the last one—a lanky kid hanging back, fists loose, steps hesitant.
As Tarrin stepped in, he saw the flicker of doubt in the kid's eyes. No rage. No bloodlust. Just nerves.
"You don't really want to fight, do you?" Tarrin asked, voice low, almost calm.
It wasn't a taunt. It was a way out.
Tarrin glanced sideways—just in time to see Riko sailing through the air, crashing into a table with a wooden crack and a cascade of splinters.
The bar erupted in drunken cheers from a group of off-duty soldiers near the back.
What the actual fuck is his deal? Did he pick this fight just for fun? And why drag me into it?
He turned back to the recruit in front of him—still twitchy, still clearly not built for this kind of chaos. The guy looked one wrong word away from bolting.
"Hey, man," Tarrin said, keeping his voice low and steady. "I don't want to fight you. My friend's just drunk and needed to blow off some steam. That's all."
The recruit exhaled, shoulders slumping like someone had defused a bomb strapped to his chest.
"Yeah... I just wanted to chill. Don't even know those guys that well," he muttered, words spilling out in a hurry. "Didn't sign up for this shit."
Then—
A shout cut through the noise, sharp enough to slice the air in half.
"What the fuck do you kids think you're doing!?"
Tarrin whipped around.
A middle-aged man stormed out from behind the bar, face red, eyes wild. Every vein in his neck looked ready to burst. Definitely the manager. And definitely not in the mood.
The scuffle froze mid-breath. The recruits all turned, stiff-backed and pale. Even Riko blinked, like the booze had evaporated from his system in an instant.
The manager's eyes locked onto Tarrin—fury boiling behind them, ready to erupt.
Why the hell do I have to clean up this mess? Tarrin thought, but he was already stepping forward, mask sliding into place. His inner conman clicked on like muscle memory.
"Evening, sir," he said smoothly, voice calm but loud enough to carry. "I'm really sorry for the mess. Just a misunderstanding between a few idiots—got a little out of hand."
He watched the man's face carefully. Still furious, but the murderous edge had dulled—only half the neck veins were pulsing now. That was progress.
Tarrin offered a disarming smile, the kind he used to get out of debt, get into places he didn't belong, and sometimes both. "We'll handle the cleanup and cover anything broken. Won't happen again."
The manager stared at him a second longer, then grunted, shaking his head.
"If that floor isn't spotless in five minutes, I'm calling the MPs."
Tarrin didn't hesitate. He spun on his heel, facing the recruits and Riko—all of them still standing around like they hadn't just demolished a table.
He'd hit his limit for the night.
"What the hell are you standing around for?" Tarrin snapped, voice cold and sharp. "Grab a mop, dumbasses. Start scrubbing."
Riko was already on his feet, brushing dust from his hoodie, shooting Tarrin a look like he'd just ruined his fun. But the fight was gone from his eyes. He wasn't drunk enough to ignore the mess they'd made—or the threat of MPs showing up.
The scarred recruit—the loud one—glared daggers at Tarrin, but one mention of military police from the manager had done its job. With a grunt, he crouched and started picking up broken glass. Pride could wait.
A few awkward minutes later, the two slipped out of the bar, the night air cooler than Tarrin remembered. They walked in silence, both pretending nothing had happened.
Riko finally broke it, voice lower now, sobered not by time, but by the weight of consequences.
"If the sergeant hears about this, we're screwed."
Tarrin exhaled hard, rubbing his temples. "Then maybe don't throw hands with every guy who brushes past you. We were supposed to be laying low, remember?"
Riko was quiet for a beat. Then, with a shrug that carried a lifetime of bad habits, he muttered, "Where I'm from, if someone disrespects you, you remind 'em not to."
Tarrin shook his head, already regretting half the night.
'Wonderful. Dragged into a brawl because this clown wanted to relive his gangland fantasies.'
Riko looked over, genuine curiosity behind his bloodshot eyes.
"But seriously, how the hell did you calm that guy down? The manager's always a hardass. He kicked me out once just 'cause I allegedly made the waitress uncomfortable."
He said it with total confidence, as if that word cleared him of all wrongdoing. Tarrin gave him a flat stare that said you absolutely did it.
"It's not rocket science," he said coolly. "I was an entrepreneur before this whole mess. Ran a business. Best in town, too—until the Union drafted me, of course."
Riko snorted. "Business, huh? Let me guess—drugs or cons?"
Tarrin only smiled. He never denied the truth when it sounded better as a rumor.
"But who the hell were those guys anyway? You know them?"
Tarrin asked, keeping his tone light, though what he really wanted was reassurance—specifically that none of those assholes were sharing a battalion with him.
Riko let out a low breath.
"The one with the scar across his neck? Yeah, he's from our battalion. Name's Felix, I think. He's been acting like I'm his personal rival ever since orientation."
"Competes with me in training like we're in some damn anime. Never understood what his deal was... but after tonight?"
Riko's expression hardened. "Now it's real."
Tarrin stared at him like he was trying to bore a hole through his skull. 'This idiot's gonna get me court-martialed before I even unpack.'
He held his tongue. Barely.
The walk back to the barracks was quiet after that. The night air sobered them up more effectively than any lecture could.
By the time they reached the building, the alcohol buzz had dulled into a light throb behind Tarrin's eyes.
They stepped into the elevator, each half-expecting a sergeant to materialize from the shadows and read them their last rites.
But the ride was uneventful, silent except for the low hum of old machinery.
When the doors slid open and they stepped into their room's hallway, the overhead lights were still on.
Tarrin froze for half a second, then remembered—the third roommate. The one Riko called a library rat.
They kicked off their boots, moving down the short hallway. Tarrin opened the door to the room and spotted him immediately.
A young man sat on the edge of one of the bunks, legs crossed, a thick book balanced in his hands.
Dark hair, slicked back with care. Glasses perched low on a sharp nose. He didn't look up immediately, too engrossed in the pages.
Tarrin stepped closer, tossing on a casual smile. "Hey. I'm Tarrin Vex. Pleasure to meet you."
The guy finally looked up, his gaze calm but measured. He extended a hand without much force behind it—more formality than welcome.
"Lucas Trimmer," he said flatly, voice cool and even.
Tarrin nodded, his smile never dropping. 'Great. A nerd with the charm of a brick wall. At least he doesn't start bar fights.'
After a quick shower that washed off the sweat, grime, and lingering scent of cheap alcohol, Tarrin stepped out feeling half-human again.
He didn't bother unpacking—just tossed the towel over the chair, climbed up the bunk bed, peeled back the stiff blanket, and slid into bed with a quiet sigh.
The sheets were thin, the mattress harder than anything he'd ever slept on, but after the day he'd had, it felt like sinking into clouds.
'Tomorrow's problem can wait.' His thoughts blurred as exhaustion pulled him under. Within moments, Tarrin was out cold.