The words drive heat through me, but I swallow the building anger. “Of course, sir. The recruits are showing improvement. Ashford demonstrated unexpected capability during training, while Styx, Flor, Eston, and others are exceeding baseline expectations in tactical scenarios.”
“Ashford.” He pauses, papers rustling before he speaks again. “The one requiring special accommodations?”
Fuck. Of course he’d notice that detail in the reports. “Medical requirements that don’t impact performance, sir. He’s proven surprisingly effective despite initial concerns.”
“Effective enough to warrant the resources we’re investing in this operation?”
I almost chuckle—that’s not what he wants to know. What he’s really asking is if he needs to dismantle our team and find someone other than me more capable for the mission. I stareat the wall of my office, at the mission parameters pinned there in neat rows. Each recruit’s progress tracked in methodical detail. “The team will be ready within the projected timeframe, sir.”
“See that they are. The Syndicate’s patience is not infinite, Commander. We have other options if this experiment proves unsuccessful.”
Other options. The threat doesn't need elaboration—I know exactly what happens to failed operations and their commanders. “Understood, sir.”
“Good, I want daily progress reports moving forward. And Commander?” His voice drops to something that might pass for conversational if not for the steel underneath. “Remember that your reputation precedes you. Do not let sentiment cloud your judgment regarding recruit selection.”
The line is dead before I can respond.
I deposit the receiver with care, my knuckles white around the plastic. The urge to slam it into the cradle wars with years of disciplined control. Instead, I lean back in my chair and stare at the ceiling, allowing the fury to simmer beneath my skin for several moments.
Sentiment. As if I’ve ever allowed emotion to interfere with operational efficiency. As if the decisions I make aren’t calculated down to the smallest detail.
But even as the anger burns, a strand of unease winds through my thoughts. The timeline is accelerating as pressure from above increases. And despite my assurances, I'm not entirely certain all fifteen remaining recruits will make the cut.
Particularly not the one who somehow managed to shatter Brenner’s leg while looking like he might collapse from exhaustion.
I reach for my cold food, finally removing my mask. The air feels cool against my face, a reminder of the vulnerability that comes with exposure.
Tomorrow, the mask goes back on, and the Commander returns while the man underneath disappears.
It’s the only way to maintain order—to ensure the system that protects us all continues to function.
No matter what it costs me personally.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CASSIA
Rain hammers against my mask, creating a deafening symphony of tiny impacts that makes it near impossible to hear anything else. I blink water from my eyelashes, struggling to focus through the narrow slit that reveals a blurred, distorted world beyond. The storm turns midday into twilight as dark, swollen clouds hang oppressively low.
It’s been three days since Brenner was escorted from training. Endless sideways glances and whispered comments when I walk past other recruits. Building anxiety waiting for the Commander to call me in for punishment that never comes. I mean, I didn’t intentionally break his leg, but I would think our esteemed leader would love nothing more than to kick me for ridding the team of a powerful member.
And now this—standing in the pouring rain alongside every other recruit in our special unit while Kellen gestures to a derelict urban landscape stretched out before us.
“This will test everything you’ve learned so far,” he shouts over the storm’s fury, his voice barely reaching us despite his evident effort.
I squint through the downpour, taking inthe training ground. It’s a mock city—not large by real standards but impressive. Crumbling concrete structures rise four or five stories high, their windows blown out, walls scarred with simulated battle damage. Alleyways snake between buildings, some so narrow a person would need to turn sideways to navigate them. Makeshift bridges—ropes strung across gaps where buildings nearly touch—create unstable pathways above street level. Wooden planks link some rooftops, while ziplines stretch between others. The entire setup forms a three-dimensional maze designed to challenge, confuse, and test.
It’s beautiful in its decay. An elaborate monument to urban warfare.
Kellen stands before us, hands clasped behind his back, seemingly unbothered by the rain soaking through his uniform. His posture remains calm; authoritative despite water cascading down his mask and shoulders. No hint of discomfort. No visible reaction to being drenched. The perfect Enforcer.
Good for him, but I won’t pretend to be comfortable. I’d turn right around and sprint to the showers, soaking in their warmth, if it were permitted.
“Decision-making under pressure,” he calls out. “That’s the difference between success and failure in the field. Between living and dying.”
I shift my weight, easing the growing ache in my lower back. We’ve been standing here for twenty minutes already while other Enforcers prepare. My bladder protests, and I silently curse my decision to drink extra water at breakfast. Stupid mistake.
At least the rain could be useful for something—washing away any evidence of me wetting myself and suffering through such embarrassment.
