Tarrin jolted awake to the blaring noise of Riko's alarm echoing through the room like a battlefield siren.
For a split second, he didn't know where the hell he was. Then it hit him—barracks, base, new life. The fog in his head cleared fast.
Why the hell did I drink last night? Bloody bane, he groaned inwardly, swinging his legs off the bunk and landing with a dull thud.
Still groggy, he reached for his uniform and changed right there without a second thought. Modesty wasn't exactly a priority in a place like this.
A quick glance across the room showed Lucas's bed already empty and made. Of course he's the type to be up before dawn. Bookworms always are.
Grabbing his Telcom from the nightstand, he checked the time. Five fifteen.
Last time I woke up this early, I was ten and excited for a school trip. He sighed, then turned toward the snoring lump below him.
Tarrin lobbed his pillow straight at Riko's head. It hit with a soft thump.
The redhead groaned, mumbled something about five more minutes, and tossed it right back without opening his eyes.
"This bastard," Tarrin muttered, stepping closer.
Then, with zero warning, he gripped the edge of Riko's blanket and started shaking him like a man possessed. "Riko! We're fucked! It's already seven-thirty! Riko, get up!"
That did the trick.
Riko sat up like he'd been electrocuted, wide-eyed and gasping.
Tarrin couldn't help the smug grin tugging at his lips.
Riko jolted upright, eyes darting around the room like he was expecting a sergeant to crawl out from under the bed and start kicking teeth in.
Panic written all over his face, he fumbled blindly across his sheets until his hand landed on the Telcom he'd tossed somewhere in the chaos of the night.
He snatched it up, tapped the screen—
Five twenty-one.
Silence. Then came the sound.
Tarrin's laugh—grating, unfiltered, and absolutely victorious—cut through the room like nails on a chalkboard. Riko winced. He'd heard dying animals sound prettier.
"You fucking bastard," he growled, voice still thick with sleep and spite.
Tarrin just grinned, tossing him his boots. "Quit crying and get dressed, you slow fuck. We're heading out."
Riko let out a snort, half amused, half homicidal, and started pulling on his clothes.
Fifteen minutes later, they were both suited up, boots laced, Telcoms clipped, and stepping out the door with the words.
"Hope that bald freak doesn't know about the bar."
The walk to the training grounds passed quicker than expected. Riko led the way with the confidence of someone who'd done this a dozen times already.
Tarrin trailed behind, mildly suspicious, half-expecting to end up in the wrong sector, or worse—late.
But to his surprise, after fifteen brisk minutes, they arrived. Not the first to show up, but not the last either. Just in time. Acceptable.
As they closed in, Tarrin's eyes scanned the crowd—dozens of unfamiliar faces, most of them trying to look tougher than they were.
The air buzzed with that unique blend of nerves and bravado.
Then Riko nudged him, subtle, tossing a tilt of his chin toward a figure off to the side.
A girl.
Striking. Long blonde hair pulled into a sharp ponytail, posture military-straight.
But it was the eyes that caught him—cold, flat, like staring down the barrel of winter itself. Pretty face, but the kind that promised nothing soft.
Tarrin arched a brow and mouthed, This the dead puppies one?
Riko nodded like a bobblehead on caffeine.
Tarrin snorted and fell in line with the rest of the recruits, already regretting being curious.
He felt it before he saw it—a stare, sharp and accusing, drilling into the side of his skull.
Tarrin turned. Felix.
The guy looked like he wanted to leap across the field and gut him where he stood. Eyes full of heat, jaw clenched, radiating silent murder.
Tarrin offered him a pleasant smile in return, the kind that said yep, I caved your friend's knee and made you scrub floors. What of it?
Felix looked like he might explode.
But then something else shifted—the air, the atmosphere. Tarrin felt it again.
That same pressure that slammed into him back when he first disembarked from The Loop. His gaze drifted to the edge of the field.
And there he was.
The man destined to personally escort him through hell for the next month.
Sergeant Vincent.
The guy moved like a machine—posture perfect, steps precise, every inch of his body coiled muscle.
His face looked carved from concrete, eyes sharper than glass, voice already vibrating in the space like a threat waiting to go off.
Even Riko beside him stiffened, face draining of color, back snapping straight. If terror had a form, it was whatever expression Riko was wearing now.
Then the sergeant's eyes locked onto Tarrin's.
Cold. Calculating. Lethal.
A drop of sweat traced its way down Tarrin's temple, despite the bite in the morning air.
And then, the sergeant's voice shattered the silence.
"Hello, sweet cheeks!"
Tarrin blinked.
'Where the hell does this man get that kind of energy at six in the morning?'
"I see some new faces here. Step forward and introduce yourselves!"
Tarrin moved before the words had fully left the sergeant's mouth. Not a flicker of hesitation.
He stepped forward with the calm confidence of someone who'd already learned that being slow was a good way to end up dead—or worse, noticed.
Not making the same mistake as the line again.
Beside him, the others shuffled, awkward and unsure. Amateurs.
Sergeant Vincent's gaze snapped to Tarrin, and something cruel sparked in his eyes. A slow smirk curled across his face.
"Well, well, if it isn't Mister Trimmed Balls."
Silence stretched. A pause, just long enough to invite laughter from the other recruits. None came.
Vincent didn't seem to care.
"Enjoy your fruity drinks last night?!"
Tarrin's gut twisted. Cold dread lanced through his spine.
He knows. Shit. He actually knows. We're dead.
The sergeant stepped in close, boots crunching against the gravel like the crack of a judge's gavel.
"Trimmed Balls, what's your name?"
Tarrin straightened up, forcing his expression into the calm mask of a model soldier. He threw a salute—sloppy, but passable—like he'd seen in old recruitment vids.
"Tarrin Vex, sir!" Loud. Clear. Like he wasn't dying inside.
Behind him, he heard the sharp inhale of breath. Riko.
'Great. He's panicking. Which means I have to survive this solo.'
"Now, would you mind telling me what you two buffoons were doing in a bar last night?!"
Sergeant Vincent's voice cracked through the air like a whip. Tarrin stiffened on instinct, spine straightening, muscles locking into place.
"Yes, sir! We were celebrating the opportunity to serve the country, sir!" Tarrin said, voice ringing with conviction, as if goddess Luna herself had whispered the line into his ear.
He sold the lie like a seasoned preacher delivering gospel.
Vincent raised a brow, unimpressed. "Oho? If you're that thrilled, why don't you drop down and give me twenty!"
Tarrin didn't flinch. The moment the words landed, he hit the dirt, palms flat, chest dipping.
"Cadet Riko," Vincent called out, his tone shifting—almost friendly. Too friendly. "Why don't you come over here and give our fresh recruit a proper welcome?"
Riko stepped forward hesitantly, a forced smile on his face. "Yes, sir."
"Sit down, cadet. Like you did at the bar last night."
The temperature seemed to drop. Riko blinked, looked around, then locked eyes with Tarrin—now on pushup seventeen, breath steady, expression unreadable.
He turned back to Vincent, who was already barking again. "What are you waiting for?!"
That was all the permission he needed.
Without another word, Riko dropped onto Tarrin's back like a sack of potatoes, legs crossed, hands in his lap like he was perched on a living bench.
Tarrin grunted but didn't stop moving. Riko, meanwhile, offered a silent apology—prayers to whatever god might forgive him for this betrayal.
As Tarrin hit his twentieth pushup, he risked a glance upward. Sergeant Vincent was still staring, arms folded, expression carved from stone.
Tarrin kept going. Stopping wasn't even on the table.
A few feet away, Felix stood grinning like a man watching karma play out—until the Sergeant's voice cracked through the air again.
"Valdez, you're a bar hero too. Give me twenty."
The smile vanished from Felix's face like someone slapped it off. He dropped to the ground beside Tarrin, his form sharp, mechanical.
But they both knew twenty was just the starting price. With Vincent, it could go to a hundred without warning.
Felix didn't even try to hide his hatred. He shot Tarrin a sideways glare, eyes burning with venom, mouthing, This is your fault, Vex.
Tarrin blinked, caught somewhere between disbelief and irritation. What the hell did I even do?
He hadn't thrown a single punch, hadn't started a damn thing. Yet somehow, the blame always circled back.
Pushup thirty-two. Thirty-three.
He glanced up again, scanning the crowd—then spotted her. The blonde. The ice-eyed girl from earlier. She was looking straight at him, face unreadable.
Was that a glare? A smirk? Pity? No—closer to disgust. Like she was watching a rat try to do calculus.
'Or maybe I'm just hallucinating insults now,' Tarrin thought, pushing through number thirty-seven, arms trembling, dignity hanging on by a thread.
Then came Vincent's voice again, slicing through the air like a whip.
"Finish a hundred. I'll get acquainted with the rest of these pretty little faces. Meatgrinder's up next."
The moment the word dropped, a wave of tension rippled through the recruits. Shoulders stiffened. Breaths were drawn in unison. Even the wind seemed to hush for a second.
Tarrin caught it—how the bravado evaporated from the group, replaced by something else.
Dread.
Whatever the hell Meatgrinder was, it wasn't a nickname for morning yoga.