Page 104 of Specter Bred

"And if he’s keeping you close now," Cutter added, tapping the room assignment in my hand, "same thing."

I looked down at the paper.

A reason.

My mind flashed back to the conversation in his office. The way he looked at me when he said he was the kind of man who kept his soldiers safe. At the time, I thought it was just another way to exert control.

His way of treating me as if I were weak.

But standing here now...

Hayes had been right.

All along, Graves had been trying to keep me safe.

Even if his way of doing it meant pushing me hard enough to make me quit and keeping me isolated from the other recruits.

I exhaled, staring down at the room assignment in my hand. Across the room, Hayes waved his own paper in the air.

"Looks like we’re bunkies again, Firecracker!" he called out, flashing that big Boy Scout grin.

"Doesn’t seem like Hayes is too torn up about it," Cutter said, smirking beside me.

Before I could respond, both instructors walked off, barking orders at the remaining recruits as everyone started hauling gear toward their new bunk assignments.

A second later, Sammy took a few clumsy strides and was suddenly in front of me, pack slung over one shoulder, reaching for mine like he actually thought I’d let him carry it.

"No fucking way, Hayes," I warned, yanking it back before he could touch it.

He held up both hands against his chest in surrender.

"What? I can’t help being the Southern gentleman my mama raised me to be."

I snorted and slung the pack over my shoulder myself.

"Which way?" I muttered.

Hayes glanced toward the far hall.

"I saw Graves disappear down there," he said, pointing toward the left side of the room.

Grizzly had been in an even fouler mood than usual ever since he’d uncharacteristically praised Hayes and me after the team win. Not that he wasn’t always a grumpy asshole. But this felt different. He seemed quieter and more withdrawn.

Now that I knew about his sister, I couldn’t help but wonder if being back at the Phase Two Specter Training Outpost, the last place she’d been stationed before her death, was weighing on him.

The outpost was a stark change from Fairfield Base.

Instead of dry, blistering desert stretching for miles in every direction, wide open and unforgiving, this place sat buried deep in the heart of Midland's dense forest.

Lush green wilderness pressed in on all sides, swallowing the small, aging compound as if nature was trying to reclaim it. There was nothing cushy or comfortable about the outpost.

The primary structure looked more like an oversized treehouse than a military installation, built entirely from weathered wood with wraparound decks, creaking stairs, and no air conditioning in sight.

Off to one side sat a small mess hall, little more than a covered shack with long picnic tables inside and a tiny kitchen manned by a skeleton crew. Beyond that was the training yard, a stripped-down obstacle course of ropes, walls, and climbing beams, all functional but worn, with vines creeping up the posts and moss spreading across the wood. Farther back sat the gun range, tucked against the tree line, half-swallowed by overgrowth.

It looked less like the training ground for Arca’s deadliest operators and more like some abandoned summer camp buried in the woods.

I’d expected state-of-the-art, not this.