Jord peeled the last potato, fingers pruned and raw. Hesk tossed him a rag. ‘Cheers for the company. If you’re hungry, there’s slop in the fridge. If not, piss off – shift’s over.’


    By the time Jord left the barracks, the drizzle had ceased, the street-lights casting flickering lights on the cobblestones. He trudged home, shoulders slumped under fatigue’s weight.


    The house lay dark. No leftovers waited on the counter. No folded laundry. His room, usually tidied by Elia, remained as he’d left it: clothes strewn, bed unmade. Jord set his alarm for 6:00 a.m., boots discarded beside the bed, and slept.


    –––


    The alarm blared. Jord grabbed a coffee – sludge-black and sour, he’d forgotten to buy sugar again – and staggered to the shower. The boiler shuddered to life, groaned, then died mid-lather.


    ‘Fuck’s sake!’ He hammered the valve. ‘Elias! Boiler’s gone!’


    ‘Again?’ Elias’s voice drifted from the kitchen, edged with sarcasm. ‘Shockin’. Maybe if you hadn’t tried to fix it last month with a butter k–’


    ‘Just restart it!’


    ‘With what? Your charisma?’


    Elia stomped to the boiler, jiggled the fuse box, and slammed it with his palm twice for good measure. The pipes clanked, sputtering lukewarm water for three seconds before dying.


    Jord scoffed. ‘Brilliant.’


    ‘You want it fixed? Pay a technician.’


    ‘With what? Past vainglories?’


    Elias shrugged behind the door. Jord endured the bitter cold, scrubbing mechanically under the freezing onslaught. He emerged shivering, towel clutched to his chest. Elia leaned in the hallway, arms crossed.


    ‘So? What happened? Yet to steal a child’s treat?’


    ‘Nah. Signed a lot of forms, and I mean a lot. So far, doesn’t seem that bad. Probably will get training – paired with other newbies, or maybe mock patrol? Still, no uniforms or badges, or anything official. Clerk’s had a hard-on for procedures and got nothin’ ‘till orientation. Manual’s not even downloaded.’ Jord raked a hand through his damp hair. ‘Want a copy?’


    Elias released a breath, posture loosening. ‘Sure. But isn’t that against the rules?’


    Jord stared at him, deadpan. ‘Dunno.’


    ‘Huh. Well, if you can – why not?’ Elias turned toward his room. ‘Just don’t sign anything that sells your soul.’


    Jord snorted. ‘Wouldn’t recognise it if I did.’


    Elia left Jord alone in the hallway. Jord then changed and left the house. His parents bid him a half-hearted farewell, too engrossed in their gossip to look up.


    –––


    The morning air clung thick with diesel fumes and the metallic tang of distant factories. Jord walked – past bus stops slumped in disrepair, past the morning traffic – until the compound’s outer fence loomed ahead, barbed wire snarling against a grey sky.


    A checkpoint guard, not the same man as yesterday, squinted at Jord, then jabbed a thumb toward a side gate. ‘New recruits queue at the east kiosk.’


    Jord flashed Mara’s message on his phone, its screen glowing:


    <blockquote>PROCEED TO TRACK 3 VIA SOUTH GATE. – OFFICER MARA V.</blockquote>


    The guard approached, read the message, and satisfied, waved him through.


    The compound sprawled west of the grey edifice – a sprawling, utilitarian expanse of cracked concrete and rusted fencing. Open-air shooting ranges pockmarked the northern edge, their bullet-riddled targets swaying in the wind, while crumbling racing tracks coiled like neglected scars across the southern quadrant.


    Jord lingered at the perimeter. His gaze snagging on a cluster of figures in unmarked fatigues drilling near the armoury. They moved with a silent, lethal precision that clashed with what Jord recalled what the Guard were able to do.


    ‘Who’re they?’ Jord muttered to a passing officer, nodding toward the figures in unmarked fatigues.


    The officer adjusted his cap, gaze sliding past Jord as if he were air. His boots crunched gravel, pace unbroken, until he vanished into a prefab hut.


    Jord stared after the officer, jaw tightening. Around him, the compound thrummed – helicopters droning, recruits barking drills – but his question hung unanswered. Arsehole, he thought, and marched towards Track 3, the grey edifice’s shadow enveloping him.


    He checked his phone – 07:43. Still early. The track stretched empty.. No rookies, no officers, not even a stray dog. So they’ve reserved the entire field for us? Or are they so much understaffed? The thought curdled into a scoff.


    He glanced at his phone again, checking again Mara’s earlier message:


    <blockquote>AWAIT OFFICER JORY AT TRACK 3. HE WILL SHEPHERD YOUR GROUP.</blockquote>


    No explanation, no timeline. Jord scowled. Shepherd. As if they were sheep to be corralled, not recruits.


    He sought shelter from the chill air, slumping against a fence post. The sun-warmed metal seeped heat into his back as his phone buzzed again – another notification.


    <blockquote>DELAYED. OFFICER JORY WILL ARRIVE 09:15. TERMINAL MALFUNCTION.</blockquote>


    Jord’s irritation flared, then died – what was the point? The Guard’s organizational ineptitude was being proven as reliable as the boiler back home.


    Time oozed past. Jord thumbed his phone, then shoved it away – better to avoid looking unprofessional. He stretched, joints cracking, and surveyed the grounds: frost-stiffened grass, a weathered wooden hurdle slumped mid-track. On impulse, he broke into a sprint. His lungs burned instantly, legs leaden, but when he reached the hurdle, he hauled himself over with a grunt – clumsy but decisive. There it was. Years of hauling crates had forged raw, utilitarian strength, not the lithe endurance he necessitated.


    Hope they don’t make us run all day. I’ll either faint or puke. Don’t wanna make that bad of a impression – not before the first payslip at least. Jord paced the track, worry gnawing at him. To kill time, he walked a lap, then jogged another, sweat pricking his neck despite the cold. The rhythm of his footsteps – crunching gravel, laboured breaths – eased the tension in his shoulders, if only slightly.


    By his third lap, a man approached. Short, wiry, with hair the colour of stale tea and a uniform frayed at the cuffs. He stood at the track’s edge, arms crossed, watching Jord with a smirk that bordered on pity.


    ‘Whittaker?’ The man’s voice was gravelly, like he’d smoked his way through a decade of bureaucracy. ‘Jory’s stuck in a terminal blackout. You’re with me now. Let’s see if you can climb a wall without crying.’


    Jord stopped mid-stride and approached the man. ‘Sorry, sir. You are?’ he asked, squinting at the stranger’s bare collar.


    ‘Jory’s partner–’ The man thrust a thumb at his chest, ‘ – Name’s Lapo. Now clench your trap and follow.’ He strode toward the obstacle course – a mess of frayed ropes and sun-bleached walls – without glancing back.


    At the base of a timber wall, Lapo jerked his chin upward. ‘Climb over. Twice. Most can’t.’


    Jord eyed the splintered wood, then gripped the ledge. His shoulders burned on the first haul, palms raw by the second. He dropped to the dirt, breath ragged.


    You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.


    Lapo stated simply, ‘Functional. Not elegant.’ Then he began to pace slowly as he continued:


    ‘I’ve seen you running – your form is good, but could be better. Your endurance is shit, but that’s life for you.’ He halted, jabbing a finger at Jord’s face. ‘Worse yet, You don’t hold a man’s gaze. That’s weak. You need to loom. Be solid, Whittaker. Like a brick wall. If someone runs into you, they don’t get back up – they spit out teeth and regret their choices because most of Guard’s duty is theatre – look solid, project professionalism. And if you can’t?’ He shrugged. ‘Beg help from your collogues, it doesn’t make you weak.’


    Jord’s posture stiffened, his tone icy. ‘What do you suggest I do?’


    Lapo leaned closer. ‘Hard to say. Don’t know yet if you’re meek or just pretending to be. Either way –’ He stepped closer – making Jord uncomfortable – and lowered his voice. ‘Grow a spine. Fake it. Build a mask. Don’t care how, but if you can’t?’ He jabbed a finger at Jord’s chest. ‘The job will grind you into paste. You’ll be the doormat everyone wipes their boots on.’


    ‘Even this,’ Lapo continued, circling a finger between them, ‘the closeness – it makes you twitchy, doesn’t it?’


    Jord said nothing but nodded. Lapo took three deliberate steps back; the tension eased, but Jord’s shoulders stayed rigid.


    ‘I don’t understand,’ Jord said. ‘Isn’t this a bit… too much? Threatening people – isn’t the job to guard, not… not play these macabre mind games?’


    Lapo barked a laugh. ‘I prefer to teach excellence. But if you’d rather swim in a sea of mediocrity, accommodate yourself. Be my guest.’ He spat into the dirt. ‘And don’t kid yourself – merit’s a myth. Half my call-outs are because some rookie didn’t know how to glare at a drunk.’


    ‘Aren''t you deliberately offloading your work onto me then?’ Jord said, crossing his arms.


    ‘Yes, what are you going to do about it?’ Lapo sneered. ‘Whine some more? Mark my words, boy. Those who don’t bend break. Be a sponge, absorb everything and you will go far.’


    ‘So,’ Jord said, crossing his arms, ‘you’ll make me a training schedule? Follow me around? Dictate what I eat?’


    ‘Gods, no.’ Lapo’s grin was razor-thin. ‘I’ll give you a list. Fail to meet it, and I’ll double it. Fail again, and I’ll see you discharged for incompetence.’ He leaned in, close enough that Jord could count the flecks of grey in his stubble. ‘But – ’ a pause, deliberate ‘ – stick to my regime and I’ll vouch for you with the old guard. Better pay. Better postings. Respect.’


    The word lingered, heavy as a gauntlet thrown at Jord’s feet


    Then why are you here? Jord thought, but biting that off was wiser than inviting another tongue-lashing.


    Lapo, nonplussed, continued. ‘You’re slow, you’re sloppy, and you’re about as sturdy as wet cardboard. That changes now.’ He checked his watch, then flicked his gaze back to Jord. ‘Every morning, 8 kilometres. Full gear. You don’t hit the mark? You start crawling. No shortcuts.’


    ‘Let’s start.’ Lapo said, already breaking into a jog.


    Jord had barely made it past 3 kilometres before his legs turned to stone, breath ragged, sweat burning his eyes. He’d slowed to a miserable trudge, boots dragging through track. Lapo didn’t call for a stop. He simply jogged past, unfazed, and barked, ‘Pick it up, or we’re doing this all day.’


    Spitting and gasping for air, Jord finally made it, though not entirely by running. Along the way, the thought of begging crossed his mind, but he resisted the temptation.


    Lapo gestured to Jord’s resting position with a look of pure boredom, as if the run hadn’t drained his strength in the slightest. ‘Now, combat drills, twice a day. Mornings, striking – precision over power. You’ll train until your muscles memorise the angles. Evenings, grappling. If you can’t break a hold or slip a tackle, you’re useless. Follow me.’


    Lapo demonstrated the basic stances, but then made Jord strike a worn-out sandbag. Jord’s fists throbbed, knuckles raw from the relentless hits. His shoulders screamed with every movement, his form slipping as his punches grew slower and sloppier. When Lapo, with a casual shove, sent him sprawling, Jord barely managed to catch himself before crashing face-first into the ground.


    Lapo nudged a steel balance beam with his boot. ‘Footwork’s a joke. That ends today. You’ll stand on this beam till your legs stop shaking. Stability drills – stairs, gravel, wet surfaces, you name it. A fighter who can’t stand isn’t a fighter, he’s a target. Fastest way to deny an opponent their advantage,’ Lapo said coldly, ‘is by making them fall.’


    Jord climbed onto the beam, knees locked stiff, arms flailing as he tried to balance. His boots wobbled on the rusted metal, every moment perilous. Halfway a minute, his ankle buckled, and he hit the ground hard. Lapo sighed. ‘Pathetic. Again.’


    Jord repeated the exercise over and over, his body screaming in protest, until, at last, he reached a full minute mark.


    ‘Congratulations.’ A slow, knowing smirk plastered on Lapo’s face. ‘Now, strength training – callisthenics, mostly. Weighted carries, sledgehammer swings, resistance work. You’ll lift till your arms shake, then you’ll lift some more. You will be faster, stronger, and meaner by the time I’m done with you.’


    Jord’s first swing shattered the stillness – a clumsy arc that sent the sledgehammer’s head thudding into the tractor tyre. Lapo watched, arms folded, as Jord repeated the motion: heave, pivot, strike. By the fifteenth rep, he heaved for breath. By the twentieth, his strength started failing him. ‘Faster,’ Lapo barked. ‘You’re not dead yet.’


    Jord’s arms locked mid-swing, grip slack, the sledgehammer slipped from his grip to crash into the rubber ball. It bounced wildly, skittering through the dirt. He bent double, hands on his knees, breath sawing in and out as sweat dripped onto the parched ground. His vision blurred at the edges.


    Lapo crouched beside him, his voice low, mocking. ''Is that all you’ve got?''


    He stood, arms crossed, his shadow sharp against the sun-baked earth. ''Stick to this, and you won’t just survive. You’ll own every room you walk into.''


    Jord looked up, hands trembling. The road ahead stretched endless, shimmering like heat haze. Lapo’s gaze offered no choice – only forward or failure.


    ‘Something to drink… please?’ Jord begged.


    ‘Sure.’ Lapo tossed him a water bottle – Jord hadn’t even noticed when Lapo got himself a backpack.


    Jord reached for it, but his limbs felt like lead. The bottle thudded to the ground. Seriously? He glared at Lapo, then dragged himself to it and gulped it dry.


    ‘How much longer till the others get here? We’ve been here for – ’ He checked his phone. ‘ – hours.’


    Lapo snorted. ‘Time naps when we’re having fun, eh? As for the others – ’ He jerked a thumb toward the northern track. ‘Jory’s herding them there. We’re walking.’


    They walked – though walked felt too generous for the leaden trudge Jord endured. His heart battered his ribs, vision tunnelling to a greyish blur. By the time they reached the track, the journey had dissolved into fragments – a stumble over gravel, Lapo’s barked commands, the metallic tang of gastric reflux in his throat.


    The track teemed with figures. His group, he assumed. Six of them, hunched and sweat-soaked, their postures mirroring his own exhaustion.


    Jord squinted at the group in the distance, his breath still ragged. ‘That them?’ he muttered.


    ‘Unless you’ve got another sorry lot wandering around,’ Lapo said dryly.


    Jord exhaled sharply, trying to shake the numbness from his legs. ‘I don’t even–‘ He rasped for breath, ‘–know if I can keep down breakfast.’ Lapo didn’t care for that for He slapped Jord’s shoulder – not hard, but enough to make his already burning muscles protest. ‘Get used to it.’


    Jord shot him a look, then nodded toward the others. ‘What are they doing?’


    ‘Waiting.’ Lapo stretched, rolling his shoulders. ‘Jory’s been running them through warm-ups, but now that you’re here, we can really start.’


    Jord groaned, rubbing his face. ‘Fantastic.’


    Lapo clapped his hands together, his grin all teeth. ‘Good. Now go tell them what you learned so far.’


    Jord blinked. ‘Learned what? I’m barely surviving.’


    Lapo shrugged. ‘Don’t we all? Be honest, and tell them that.’


    Jord finally reached the group. He wasn’t the tallest, nor the leanest, and certainly not the most striking.


    ‘This–’ An officer by the collar’s emblem (Jory, he assumed, squinting through his haze) jabbed a finger at him, ‘–is your new colleague. Partner, if he lasts the week. Seems that Lapo already inducted you in the life. So, how do you feel in so far?’


    Jord glanced around. A woman watched him with pity, a man with quiet worry in his eyes, and two others who seemed indifferent, focused on their own business. None of them concerned him.


    What did was the small man standing apart from the rest – lean, sharp-featured, glasses perched on his nose, a short crop of hair neat and controlled. He wasn’t just looking at Jord – he was staring, gaze heavy with something unreadable, something bordering on menace.


    Jord didn’t know why, but he made a mental note of the guy. Maybe it was nothing. Maybe he was imagining it. But better safe than sorry. He’d watch his back, especially if he ever got partnered with him.


    ‘My name is Jord Whittaker, and as Officer Jory mentioned, I’m your new colleague. Pleased to make your acquaintance.’ Better to start on the right foot. Stay on their good side.


    Jory snorted. ‘Hmph, yeah. Let me guess – Lapo already ran you into the ground? Take it easy for now. You can join us when you’ve got your legs back under you. No point in barfing first thing in the morning, right?’ He glanced at one of the indifferent men from before, a tall, broad-shouldered guy with a heavy build and a shock of crimson hair.


    ‘As I said earlier,’ Jory continued, addressing the group, ‘your role is more about presence than action. The fastest way to do the job is to act decisively, not get bogged down in nonsense.’


    Jord crossed his arms and nodded.


    Jory continued, ‘Alright, let’s go over a few situations. First one – a drunk starts a brawl. What do you do?’


    One of them, a wiry man with a sharp look, spoke up. ‘If we go by the manual, we de-escalate, escort the suspect to jail to cool off, then fine him for public nuisance.’


    ‘Officially, yes,’ Jory said, then let out a dry chuckle. ‘In reality? Toss him in the street and call it a day. Don’t waste time arguing with fools – just use force when needed. And if you ever find yourself wondering whether violence is the answer, you’re asking the wrong question. The real question is violence and the answer is yes.’ Jory spoke in a tone that left no room for disagreement.


    The group dispersed into pairs, tasked with simulating a pub brawl under Jory’s watch. Jord was paired with the sharp-featured man in glasses, whose nameplate read V. Krane. Up close, Krane’s gaze felt surgical, dissecting Jord’s every twitch.


    ‘Rules?’ Jord asked, rolling his stiff shoulders.


    ''No rules,’ Jory called out. ''Just results.’


    Krane struck first – a jab precise as a needle. Jord staggered, lip split. Heave, pivot, strike. Lapo’s voice snarled in his memory. Jord swung wildly, missing Krane entirely but slamming his fist into open air.


    ''Pathetic,’ Krane muttered, adjusting his glasses. ''You hit like a dockworker.’


    I am a dockworker, Jord thought, but lunged again, this time grappling Krane’s waist. They crashed into the dirt, Jord’s raw knuckles grinding gravel as Krane twisted free.


    ''Enough!’ Jory barked. ''Whittaker – you’re dead. Krane – you win.’


    Jord lay panting, soiled and humiliated, as Krane strode off, pristine save for a smudge on his sleeve. The woman who’d watched him earlier tossed Jord a rag. ''You’ll learn,’ she said, not unkindly.


    At dusk, Jord limped past the special forces vacant training ground. A balaclava lay trampled in the mud – black, unmarked. He pocketed it, a relic of the elite he’d only hear in whispers.


    Lapo materialized beside the fence, smirking. ''Still standing?’


    ''Barely.’


    ''Good. Means you’re able to bend.’ Lapo tossed him a protein bar. ''Good work today. And keep that mask tight, Whittaker. It’s starting to fit.’


    Jord bit into the bar. Ahead, Krane lingered at the compound gates, staring. Jord met his gaze until Krane looked away.


    Small victories. They’d have to do.