Our goal here is to deliver something mysterious—something they'll eventually hand to us. That much is clear now. That's why the running sessions make sense, even if they feel like marathon prep. And maybe that's why they drilled us so hard on the sidearm—like some kind of enforced convention.
But ever since that truck left, everything feels different.
That afternoon, Pain gathers us and explains the history, combat applications, and inner mechanics of the Glock 19. This time, it's not just about using it, cleaning it, or shooting it.
This time, we get to truly know our equipment.
By evening, we have our usual dinner, and then we're sent to bed.
I have to admit—I thought Pain was just some bloodthirsty idiot who only knew how to be sadistic. But the information he gives us is too precise. Too accurate. Too useful. I spend the night examining my Glock 19, following his explanations step by step.
I'm not bragging, but I can feel it: if someone puts a can twice as far away this time, I won't miss. I understand the grip. The stance. How the iron sights line up. How to breathe. How to squeeze instead of pull.
It makes sense now.
The next day, we're put back into action.
Running.Shooting.Lunch.
By the afternoon, we get a new instructor standing in front of the tents.
His face is covered.
"All you need to know is my name," he says in a guttural voice. "Stone."
That's it.
For hours, all he does is bark short, precise orders.
"Stand.""Down.""Crouch.""Up."
Over and over.
It's frustrating. There's no explanation. No feedback. Just commands. Silence.
I can feel his eyes on us the entire time, evaluating every movement. Making mistakes isn't an option. To err here feels… unacceptable.
We repeat the routine all day. Six hours of this strange, mechanical movement system.
Dinner.Bed.
Day sixteen.
Usual jog, Pain leading it. I hope it's just my imagination, but it feels like he's running faster. By the time we get back to camp, we're as exhausted as on the first day. We recover for a bit.
Then Stone lines us up—ten on each side, facing each other.
That's when it clicks.
Combat training starts now.
Nothing fancy. Nothing cinematic. No Hollywood choreography. No elegant moves you'd see in movies or TV shows. Everything has one single purpose:
Subdue the enemy.
A nicer way of saying: kill the other guy.
I barely keep myself alive—hitting the floor more times than anyone else.
From that point on, the routine settles in.
Two meals a day.Combat training.Physical conditioning.Shooting sessions twice a week.
And just like that, this stops feeling like marathon preparation…
…and starts feeling like we're about to go to war.
Whatever they teach us, I manage to grasp.
As long as I understand it, it sticks.
And once it sticks, it's mine. The movement. The technique. Step by step. Cleaning it. Polishing it.
I'm not special—but as long as I persevere, I keep growing alongside the effort.
For a moment, I start thinking—naively—that it isn't that hard.
Life proves me wrong soon enough.
The days where I end up face-down on the floor slowly begin to disappear. Then they add explosives to the equation. Shooting under deafening noise, in the middle of sandstorms that hit like a wall.
By my fourth month inside the training camp, I manage something I wouldn't have believed before.
I hit the fifty-meter mark with the Glock 19.
Not once.
Consistently.
But this place isn't just about facing the enemy head-on—an enemy standing still fifty meters away.
We're taught how to pick a weapon depending on the occasion. Sometimes the weapon isn't a gun, but a sound. Or timing. Or absence.
There's too much creativity involved.
How to lose a battle—and still win the war.
The kind of skills a normal military only gives to soldiers who survive long enough… or prove themselves exceptional.
Here?
They give them to everyone.
No questions.No hesitation.
When everything finally settles into my way of living, the sixth month arrives.
I still remember that day clearly.
The sun hit like it wanted to burn the world clean. The wind howled hard enough to feel personal—like it was trying to stop this unholy ceremony.
But there we stood.
Unmoving. Like a mountain.Unaffected. Like the wind itself.
The heat didn't matter anymore. Neither did the gusts threatening to tear the tents away.
We'd been broken into something else.
They line us up.
No speeches.No drama.No time to waste.
Just results.
Then they hand them to us.
The patches.
A simple sand-colored piece of fabric. A single coiled S stitched into it.
Nothing flashy.Nothing heroic.
But the moment it touches my uniform, something changes.
It isn't pride.
It isn't personal like that.
It's a marker.Of where I am.Of what I've done.
And even now, I don't fully understand how heavy it will become after the first delivery.
Russo finally speaks.
"You've earned it," he says. "Now prove what you're made of."
No applause.No congratulations.
Just expectation.
"The first deployment is in two days," he continues. "Groups of four. When I call your names, you step into the tent."
The wind howls again, dragging sand across our boots.
Then he starts.
"Team one: Makena. Lin Fen. Rupert. Shy Guy."
My name lands heavier than the patch.
I don't hear the next teams.
I don't need to.
Rupert's there—still lucky as ever.Shy Guy—silent as always, unreadable.And Makena.
The gambler.
Play-dough nerves wrapped in bravado.
Perfect.