"Now that I know you're not deaf—and I hope you're not retarded—stop playing dead. Stand at attention. Now."
That was enough.
My instincts kicked in.No thinking. No hesitation.
My body moved on reflex alone.
I stood at attention.
"Looks like we're lacking material this time," he says, evaluating us like broken equipment.
Then he steps forward.
"Greetings, fresh meat. I'm Maximillian Russo. Camp commander."
So my suspicions were right.
The camp commander is the oldest man there—sharp-eyed, battle-hardened. The kind of soldier who doesn't need to raise his voice to be obeyed.
I'd just experienced that firsthand.
"This motherfucker on my right," he adds casually, "is the Senior NCO. He'll explain—lovely and caring—what you're doing here."
The Senior NCO doesn't smile.
He doesn't need to.
"First of all—no ranks. You do your job, or you're gone."
He pauses, letting it sink in.
"My name is Mark Pain. I'm in charge of making you at least competent. But first, let me tell you why you're here."
He starts walking in front of us, slow and deliberate.
"Some of you," he says, pointing vaguely, "are here because of gambling. Debts. Scum. If you weren't here, you'd be drowning in a river."
He keeps moving.
"Some of you came looking for experience."
His eyes shift to another cluster.
"And the rest of you…"
He stops.
Looks at us like we're already expired.
"…were nothing. And unlucky enough to end up here."
"And before you die for nothing," he continues, "we're giving you a chance at redemption."
He lets the word hang there, almost mocking it.
"For the next six months, you'll be under my training. Every breath, every mistake—mine to correct."
He scans the line.
"After that, you'll be assigned to operations. Teams of four. Four cargos per team."
A pause.
"You don't need to know what you're carrying. In fact, the less you know, the easier it is to survive."
His eyes harden.
"We're not here to make friends. Whoever—or whatever—gets in your way, there's only one solution."
He taps the holster.
"You blow it away."
Another pause. Longer.
"For each successful delivery, every member of the team gets two hundred thousand."
A murmur runs through the group.
He kills it with a look.
"For those of you drowning in debt—we'll take care of it."
Then the hook.
"And at the end of the contract… you walk away with another two hundred thousand."
Silence.
The kind that weighs more than fear.
"The rules are simple.
Infighting is forbidden.Asking too many questions is forbidden.Slacking during training is forbidden."
He lets that sink in.
"And before paranoia kicks in—yes, some of you are probably thinking you're in some kind of movie. Thinking about making a mess."
A thin smile.
"That only makes my job harder."
He steps closer.
"I promise you this," Pain says, his voice calm, almost bored, "by the time I'm done with you, you'll wish I'd just put a bullet through your head."
He pauses.
"Closest city?" he adds.
"Three hundred kilometers that way."
He lifts an arm and points toward the horizon.
"Such a nice walk."
Another pause.
"Anyone who wants to leave is free to do so," Pain continues. "I'll gladly bid you farewell."
His mouth twists into something that might be a smile.
"Staying here has to be your own choice."
He shrugs.
"After all, we're very committed to international human rights…"
A beat.
"…and all that bullshit."
He straightens up.
"So enough chit-chat."
He points toward a tent.
"In there you'll find your uniforms."
A pause.
"You have five minutes. I don't care how you do it."
With that, we rush into the tent he pointed at.
I swear I've never worn clothes like that before. No time to think. No time to complain. All I can focus on is speed—pulling, tightening, forcing everything into place before those five minutes run out.
When time's up, we're standing outside the tents, breathing hard.
None of us is wearing the uniform properly.
Pain notices immediately.
"Since you all made the same mistake," he says calmly, "you all share the same destiny."
He racks the slide of his sidearm.
For a split second, I'm sure we're all thinking the same thing.
This is it.
But before any of us can process what's happening, he turns and starts running.
"No one falling behind!"
And just like that, we're moving.
Almost midday.The sun is merciless.
Every damn step feels heavier than the last. My head pounds. I can still feel the IV fluids sloshing inside me as I run. Somehow, I keep going—barely—ending up dead last.
Ninety minutes.
Ninety minutes under brutal heat.
By the time we stop, none of us can even make a sound.
Pain orders us to line up.
I'd trade my soul for a Coke right about now.
Instead, he allows us one bottle of water.
Just one.
Still—water is water.
I drink it like it's sacred.
And as my heart finally stops trying to tear its way out of my chest, I start thinking about my current predicament.
Yet even now…
Somewhere deep in my chest—
I feel expectation.