The desert sun turned the Camp Sutter training field into a furnace, waves of heat rippling off the sand like something alive. The men were already slowing, groaning beneath the weight of their rucks, sweat streaking down their faces.

But Ava Lorne didn’t slow.

She pressed the weighted bar overhead again—smooth, precise, the muscles in her arms standing out like braided steel. She didn’t break form. She didn’t waver. She didn’t even seem to hear the mocking laughter circling her.

“Easy there, Hulkette,” Private Matthews smirked, tossing down his weights. “Trying to show off for someone?”

“Monster’s at it again,” Kramer muttered. “Bet she bench-presses elephants when she’s bored.”

Ava didn’t answer. She simply lowered the bar, inhaled once, and lifted again.

Later, on the rope climb, she moved like gravity had forgotten her. Thirty feet up, tap the beam, thirty feet down — calm, controlled. The recruits fell silent, then resentful, then cruel again.

By evening, the nickname had spread through the barracks like smoke:

“Freak.”

And when “The Crucible” began—the forty-eight-hour gauntlet meant to break even the strongest—the recruits smirked at her back.

“She’ll burn out,” Matthews whispered. “Too much muscle, not enough stamina.”

But hour after hour, Ava kept moving. Harder. Further. Alone.

And at dawn of the second day, when a distress call cracked over the radios and instructors simulated an overrun squad with a 180-pound rescue dummy trapped on a ridge, the entire group faltered.

Except her.

Ava dragged the dummy onto her shoulder and began the uphill run through smoke, sand, and gunfire simulations. No hesitation. No fear. No complaint.

By the time they reached the final ridge, every recruit—exhausted, shaking, sunburned—was following her lead.

And when the team stumbled through the gates with the dummy between them, beating the course record by twenty-seven minutes, even the instructors stared.

Ava Lorne collapsed to her knees, chest heaving.

The field went quiet.

Because the command building door opened…

and out stepped Rear Admiral Rowan Pierce—a man who never showed up for trainee evaluations.

His gaze locked on Ava.

He walked straight toward her.

Every recruit held their breath.

And when he finally stopped in front of her, the base froze as he said:

“Staff Sergeant Lorne… good to see you again.”

The recruits’ heads snapped toward her.

“Again?” Matthews whispered. “What does he mean—again?”

The Admiral drew one breath, stepped closer, and opened his mouth—

and the entire base braced for the truth that was about to hit them like a blast wave—

The desert sun turned the Camp Sutter training field into a furnace, waves of heat rippling off the sand like something alive. The men were already slowing, groaning beneath the weight of their rucks, sweat streaking down their faces.

But Ava Lorne didn’t slow.

She pressed the weighted bar overhead again—smooth, precise, the muscles in her arms standing out like braided steel. She didn’t break form. She didn’t waver. She didn’t even seem to hear the mocking laughter circling her.

“Easy there, Hulkette,” Private Matthews smirked, tossing down his weights. “Trying to show off for someone?”

“Monster’s at it again,” Kramer muttered. “Bet she bench-presses elephants when she’s bored.”

Ava didn’t answer. She simply lowered the bar, inhaled once, and lifted again.

Later, on the rope climb, she moved like gravity had forgotten her. Thirty feet up, tap the beam, thirty feet down — calm, controlled. The recruits fell silent, then resentful, then cruel again.

By evening, the nickname had spread through the barracks like smoke:

“Freak.”

And when “The Crucible” began—the forty-eight-hour gauntlet meant to break even the strongest—the recruits smirked at her back.

“She’ll burn out,” Matthews whispered. “Too much muscle, not enough stamina.”

But hour after hour, Ava kept moving. Harder. Further. Alone.

And at dawn of the second day, when a distress call cracked over the radios and instructors simulated an overrun squad with a 180-pound rescue dummy trapped on a ridge, the entire group faltered.

Except her.

Ava dragged the dummy onto her shoulder and began the uphill run through smoke, sand, and gunfire simulations. No hesitation. No fear. No complaint.

By the time they reached the final ridge, every recruit—exhausted, shaking, sunburned—was following her lead.

And when the team stumbled through the gates with the dummy between them, beating the course record by twenty-seven minutes, even the instructors stared.

Ava Lorne collapsed to her knees, chest heaving.

The field went quiet.

Because the command building door opened…

and out stepped Rear Admiral Rowan Pierce—a man who never showed up for trainee evaluations.

His gaze locked on Ava.

He walked straight toward her.

Every recruit held their breath.

And when he finally stopped in front of her, the base froze as he said:

“Staff Sergeant Lorne… good to see you again.”

The recruits’ heads snapped toward her.

“Again?” Matthews whispered. “What does he mean—again?”

The Admiral drew one breath, stepped closer, and opened his mouth—

and the entire base braced for the truth that was about to hit them like a blast wave—