One week.
Seven days of pure hell.
Braxton's "training" was just torture with a curriculum attached. Every morning brought fresh nightmares. Gravity-enhanced runs that made my lungs feel like someone had poured molten metal inside them. Endurance drills that went for hours until my muscles stopped screaming and just gave up. Sparring sessions where the only rule was "try not to die" while our instructor sipped coffee and shouted useless advice.
But I'd adapted.
Stopped barking orders like some discount drill sergeant. That approach failed spectacularly in the first two days. Now I was playing a different game. The long game.
I leaned against the chain-link fence. Metal felt cool against my back despite the afternoon sun. Watched as Braxton unleashed another round of paintballs from his military-grade rifle. Each shot cracked through the air hard enough to leave welts for days.
Jacob screamed.
High-pitched. Desperate. Like a small animal in a trap.
