She arrived at the training grounds wearing a faded T-shirt, a torn backpack slung carelessly over one shoulder, and her hair pulled back tight—looking more like a lost assistant than a soldier-in-training. The other recruits didn’t hold back their laughter.
“Looks like the army’s recruiting backstage crew now,” someone snickered.
In the mess hall, Derek strutted up, slammed his tray down loudly, and sneered, “Hey, lost girl, this isn’t a charity line.”
He shoved his tray, sending mashed potatoes flying onto her shirt. The room burst into raucous laughter. Olivia calmly wiped it away and kept eating without a word.
During warm-ups, Lance crashed into her shoulder hard enough to send her stumbling into the mud.
“What’s wrong, Mitch? Want to mop the floor?” he joked, the others joining in.
Without missing a beat, Olivia stood up, brushed off her hands, and kept running—silent and unshaken.
At the navigation drill, Kyle grabbed the map from her hands and ripped it clean in half.
“We’ll see how you manage without this,” he taunted, tossing the pieces to the wind.
She just nodded and kept moving, unbothered.
Then, in the combat simulation, Lance grabbed her collar and slammed her into a wall. Her shirt tore, exposing an old black tattoo on her shoulder blade.
Instantly, the laughter died.
The Colonel, standing nearby, turned pale as a ghost and stepped forward, eyes fixed on the ink.
That tattoo was no ordinary design—it was a symbol of elite service, a secret badge of honor.
Leaning close, the Colonel studied the black ink with trembling hands. The training ground’s atmosphere shifted—respect, shock, and something else filled the air.
Olivia met his gaze quietly, knowing the game had just changed.
