Micah had been part of House Saturn since the first time his boots hit the gravel of the Academy courtyard. Not a real member—no bloodline, no sigil—but he hailed from one of the Earth Territories, and that was enough. Second-year, categorized as standard footsoldier.

  Dillion was a first-year. Bigger, taller—or more accurately, fatter and taller. Micah, by contrast, was lean. Lean enough to be mistaken for a scarecrow if not for the hard steel behind those sharp blue eyes.

  Between them walked Mags, the other first-year they’d picked up. She was short, big-boned, and constantly whistling some out-of-tune melody as the early fall wind tugged at her two skinny brown pigtails.

  “About time,” Dillion muttered, voice like crushed gravel. “That was a long summer.”

  “Reminds you of your colony?” Mags asked, one brow raised.

  Dillion gave a short nod. “More roaring fields and wheat out there. But this... this has a beauty too.”

  Micah rolled his eyes. “A beauty? You’d shit bricks if you saw the cities out in the fringe worlds. Some are so stacked they started digging down, miles of underground real estate just to keep packing people in.”

  Dillion let out a belly-laugh, a real, full-throated one. “That’s gotta be a House Mercury thing.”

  They all chuckled, walking the dirt path back from lectures to what passed as dorms. Unlike the clean steel towers of the other Houses, House Saturn didn’t have halls or dormitories. Not really. Even the Martians—shamed and outcast—had barracks.

  House Saturn had tents. A plot of land. That was it.

  Decades ago—maybe longer, no one really remembered—House Saturn had pissed off a headmaster. Something about taxes. The Houses, even Mars, were being squeezed. Saturn said no. Said they bled more soldiers into the Emperor’s wars than anyone. They’d earned exemption.

  But even Mars, who’d saved the goddamn universe from alien incursions, hadn’t dared raise a voice.

  Next thing anyone knew, Saturn’s walls were blown open, their housing stripped. The administration made it clear: if they wouldn’t pay, their sons and daughters—children of generals and sergeants and old-world diplomats—would sleep outside while they studied.

  House Saturn never answered officially. But the message was loud enough. Because the next delivery those students received from home wasn't legal counsel or letters of protest.

  It was tents. Ration kits. Wilderness survival gear.

  And that was how it’d been ever since.

  As the trio approached the edge of the woods—the only marker of Saturn’s so-called territory—they passed the ruined path of stone blocks, half-buried in moss and time. Once a mansion had stood there. Now it was just bones in the dirt.

  Campfires burned low in the gathering dusk. Students laughed. Someone strummed a guitar. A rigged-up TV flickered inside a salvaged hut made of metal sheeting and old hull panels. Antennas jutted from treetops. Uniforms hung like surrender flags on cord lines. Some didn’t even bother with tents—they’d built shanties from canvas, crates, and rusted solar panels. Military junk fused with tribal scrap.

  Further into the woods, waterbearers in black uniforms waved at them, jugs strapped to their backs, fresh from class.

  Their lecture halls had power. Showers. Cafeterias.

  And this—this was the shit Micah was paying tuition for?

  He was about to say something when a blur broke from the trees. Someone sprinting.

  Another first-year, hauling ass down the road toward them. Black cadet uniform, dusted with pine needles and dried mud, the yellow Saturn rings stamped boldly across the shoulders.

  “Hey, guys, what’s up!” called the boy, waving as he jogged up and stopped in front of them.

  Dillion and Micah gave casual nods. Mags offered a brighter response, voice light as her smile. “Hey, Reid. What’s going on?”

  Reid let out a breath like he’d been running. “It’s getting cold out here… but the big guys sent me. They want to talk to you.”

  Dillion blinked. “What did we do now?” he muttered, dragging a hand down his face.

  Reid quickly waved both arms. “No, no—it’s not you guys.” His grin widened, flicking toward Mags.

  Mags froze. Her name echoed silently in her head. All five-foot-three of her—short, soft, pudgy. “M-me?” she asked, pointing a trembling finger to her chest, gaze darting between their faces.

  “Yeah,” Reid said, looking at Micah and Dillion rather than her. “Pretty specific. Alone.”

  The guys exchanged a look but didn’t protest. They knew better. House Saturn's leadership didn’t tolerate backtalk—not like the softer Houses. There was no mercy among the outcasts.

  Reid led her through the cluster of tents, past flickering campfires and smoking stoves, until they reached the edge of the camp where a shack stood. Crude, sun-dried clay and broken bricks formed its body. The door was nothing more than a thick flap of canvas.

  He held it open for her.

  She ducked underneath. The flap fell shut behind her, muting the noise of the camp. Inside, the air smelled faintly of gasoline. A generator rumbled somewhere out back.

  “So this is the president’s room,” she whispered to herself, almost without thinking.

  Ivan, House Saturn’s president, sat in the middle. He paused what he was writing and lifted a single eyebrow, his pen still in hand. Not far from him stood another boy, one Mags didn’t know. Too clean-cut. Too still.

  Carmen and Yuri. Ivan’s lieutenants. She recognized them from a distance but had never spoken to either.

  Yuri stood at Ivan’s side, arms crossed. His camo jacket sleeves were rolled up, showing off forearms thick with old scars and fresh training bruises. He looked like someone who didn’t flinch when shots were fired.

  Carmen lounged on a battered couch, half-reclined, filing her nails. She glanced up at Mags like she was appraising livestock, then dismissed her with a flick of her gaze. The gesture stung more than words could.

  Mags took in the room. A cot in the corner, a sheet strung up for privacy. A desk with a humming laptop—how? And a real chair. Not a crate. Not a folding stool.

  Luxury. Unimaginable for Saturn’s rank and file.

  Even the president of House Saturn couldn't touch what the other House leaders had. Titles meant shit when your bloodline couldn’t pay for power. That had always been the truth, since the first time humans built walls and decided who would sleep inside them.

  “Sit,” Ivan said simply, gesturing to the chair beside the desk.

  Mags nodded quickly and stepped forward. She lifted the chair rather than drag it—no way in hell she’d scrape it across the floor and piss someone off.

  She sat.

  Yuri didn’t look at her when he spoke, but his words cracked like a whip. “Beat it, Reid.”

  Reid hesitated, laughed awkwardly, then vanished through the flap like a soldier dodging fire. Gone in a heartbeat.

  Ivan leaned forward, hands laced. “First things first—you’re not in trouble.”

  Mags tried to respond but only managed a noise that landed somewhere between a cough and a squeak.

  Yuri smirked. Carmen's lips curled upward, slow and lazy.

  “I… okay,” Mags whispered, hands flat on her thighs. Sweat coated her palms. “So why am I here?”

  Ivan chuckled, but it wasn’t cruel. “I’m assembling a team,” he said. “And when I looked through the records… I was surprised.”

  He lifted a sheet of paper and flicked it toward her.

  It landed on the desk in front of her. Her own face stared back.

  Her age, her weight, her hometown, home planet. Parents. Family.

  Two files. One blacked-out to hell, redacted like a warcrime. The second one—pristine, uncensored—lay open on the desk like a confession.

  “I didn’t realize you were a mutant,” Ivan said, lips curled in a smirk.

  The word struck her like a slap.

  Mag’s tensed, her shoulders hitching up as if they could shield her from the syllables.

  “Easy,” Ivan added, raising his hands, half in mock defense, half in control. “I don’t even know if that’s the politically correct word anymore,” he said with a shrug, eyes flicking over to Yuri and Carmen, as if waiting for someone to correct him. No one did. “But you can’t blame us for being blunt. Out here, we don’t have the luxury of etiquette.”

  Mag’s gave a small, bitter laugh. “…I’ve been called worse. ‘Mutant’ is practically a compliment compared to some of the other things.”

  “Well,” Ivan leaned back in his chair, that damned smirk not leaving his face, “you’re one of the newest entries in the Empirical catalogue. You’re not alone anymore, at least not on paper. Look, this isn’t an interrogation. Saturn’s already signed off on your transfer. Whatever you are, whatever gene markers they scanned—frankly, I don’t care. I’m not interested in your DNA. I’m interested in what you can do.”

  Mag’s didn’t answer. Her arms folded around her chest, drawing in like a collapsing star. Ivan didn’t wait for permission—he swept a few sheets from the desk, and photos fluttered like dead leaves in the air before slapping down in front of her.

  “Big family,” he said. “Like, biblical. You’ve got siblings stacked like bricks, colony breathing down your neck to ‘make it.’ I bet your folks are watching every step from home like it’s a goddamn lottery ticket.”

  Mag’s glanced at the photos, then looked away. Her jaw was clenched.

  “Now,” Ivan said, spreading his arms wide as if welcoming her into a confession booth. “I may be president, but I’m not going to sugarcoat it. Saturn’s the worst House in the fleet. Bottom of the barrel.”

  “Absolute shit,” Yuri chimed in with a grin wide enough to show his back molars.

  “Complete garbage,” Carmen added, finally rising from the couch, her file forgotten, now watching Mags like she was something to be appraised and bought.

  Ivan didn’t stop. “We’ve been given a contract. Off-books. Civilian-facing. We'll be operating like mercs. Real payout, real risk. The kind of job that could buy us back some respect. Or bury us for good.”

  Mag’s stiffened. Her eyes dropped to the floor. Her throat tightened. She could feel it—that same sick twist in her stomach. Her mind reached, without warning, for the image of José. His laugh. His mess of curly hair. His smile that never quite reached his eyes.

  She remembered when they zipped his bodybag.

  She shook her head. “N-no. No, that sounds like suicide,” she whispered, trying to stand.

  “Sit back down,” Yuri said, voice like steel.

  Mag’s froze. Sat. Her legs folded beneath her before her mind could even catch up.

  “Yuri,” Ivan snapped, his tone cold and clipped. “That’s not how you recruit someone.”

  Carmen stepped forward, brushing nonexistent dust from her uniform. “Boys,” she muttered with a shake of her head, “always thinking barking gets the job done.” She tilted her head toward Mag’s, who was trembling like a leaf. “Mind if I try something else?”

  Ivan leaned back, amused. “Please. Maybe your approach’ll actually work.”

  “You tell me,” Yuri chuckled darkly, eyes lingering on the two girls in a way that made Mag’s stomach curl.

  Carmen ignored him. “Mags,” she said, dragging out the syllables like she was tasting them. “That your real name? Or some callsign?”

  Mag’s blinked, surprised. “No. Just Mag’s.”

  Carmen raised an eyebrow. “Seriously? That’s it?”

  Mag’s felt heat rise in her cheeks. “It’s not that uncommon. My grandmother was named Mag’s.”

  That only made Carmen laugh harder, her voice sharp and rich as she wiped at her eyes. It wasn’t cruel, not really—but there was something in the laugh that made Mag’s want to punch something.

  “Alright, alright. Easy,” Ivan said, still smiling, though something had changed behind his eyes.

  And Mag’s—Mag’s looked like she was about to break right there in the chair. Her face pale. Her eyes glassy. Her knuckles white around her arms.

  She didn’t belong here.

  “Boss man, this girl doesn’t seem with it,” said Yuri, arms folded, voice flat.

  Ivan sighed, one eye squinting as if the cigarette smoke from a ghost hovered in front of him. “Didn’t realize you were growing a heart, Yuri.”

  Yuri shot him a look, cold enough to flash-freeze steel. “A soldier is a soldier. A pilot is a pilot. A civilian’s a civilian.” He turned his gaze back to Mag’s. Her lips trembled. The tears at the corners of her eyes looked like glass before it cracks. “We haven’t told her much. She walks now, no harm done. No leaks. No need for an answer.”

  “Yeah, but we could lose someone real good,” Ivan said, his voice suddenly lower, thoughtful. He leaned forward, gaze sharpening on Mag’s like a scalpel. “You and that Henryk boy—you’re the same blood, right? And that Mercurian girl, the dark one. I’ve read the files. Your kind has a sixth sense for Warcasket piloting.”

  “The same blessing as the Witches,” Yuri muttered.

  Carmen chimed in, her voice almost hesitant, but curious. “I’ve heard… your kind could even use weapons like the Witches do.” She paused, eyes narrowing just slightly, studying Mag’s. “Maybe you’ve got that potential, too. You could bear their weapons.”

  Mag’s looked at each of them. Her eyes darted like trapped prey. Ivan was smiling again—one of those wolfish smirks that didn’t reach his eyes.

  “Listen, Mag’s. Wait before you make your choice,” Ivan said. “But when you choose, that’s it. No backsies. No way out. You’ll be bound to us. All in.”

  “Blood,” said Yuri. His eyes were flat and hard as iron plates. “That’s the cost.”

  Mag’s voice broke before it left her mouth. “I don’t want to hurt anyone,” she said finally, blunt, broken. “I’m not even a pilot. I’ve never even held a gun—let alone climbed into a Warcasket.” She held up her fingers, as if to prove their uselessness. “Maybe I’ve got the blood, the gene, the curse, whatever. But it’s never done a damn thing for me.”

  The room went quiet. A stillness settled in like snowfall.

  Then Carmen smirked. “Ivan. Show her.”

  Ivan nodded, rising. He walked to the back, pulled aside the curtain to a room that looked more like a makeshift bunker. The sound of a lock unfastening echoed, hollow and loud. Carmen spoke gently while Mag’s turned toward her.

  “Not to pry, but we read your file. Your colony’s rough. Swamps. Bogs. Borderline Everglades. You’ve got things crawling in that place no one’s named yet.” Carmen smiled faintly. “Aliens left behind some real monsters, didn’t they?”

  Mag’s didn’t answer. But the yellow glow that spilled out of the curtain painted her face like molten sun. It struck her like a hymn, like an orchestra erupting in gold and glory. Her breath hitched.

  Ivan’s voice cut through the light. “Each of us gets a clean, fat cut. The suits we’re getting haven’t even hit the market yet.”

  He stepped out again, the curtain falling shut behind him. “But the thing that really sold me…” He smiled as he turned to his lieutenants. “That footage. Henryk. The way he moves in that machine—”

  “Annoying fuck,” Yuri said, deadpan.

  Ivan laughed. “Yes. The annoying fuck. He bends the Warcasket like it’s made of tendon and nerve. Like the machine is dancing with him. Uncanny. Damn thing looks alive.”

  Mag’s was still staring at where the gold had been. Now it was gone, and the drab light of the room returned. Her eyes blinked, trying to recalibrate.

  “I… I’ve never piloted,” she murmured. Her voice was far away. She lifted her hand, dazed. She had never seen that kind of money. Not in dreams. A single brick of it could save her family. A handful could drag her whole colony out of the mud.

  Carmen exhaled slowly. “You’ve probably never even been near a Warcasket, huh? Doesn’t matter.” She rolled her shoulders, grinning now. “We’ve got a few weeks. With your bloodline, and the new tech? You’ll learn fast. We’ll tear through them like paper.”

  She made a fist and slammed it into her open palm.

  “We get paid. Big. Then we get more.”

  “…and more,” Mag’s stammered, the words crawling out of her before she realized she was saying them.

  Mag’s hand brushed against her chin in thought, the weight of the decision pulling at her like gravity itself. Ivan leaned back, a smile that didn’t reach his eyes curling his lips.

  “I’ve got a contact at House Mercury,” he began, his voice a low rumble in the dim room. “And he had the luxury of sending me designs of a newly-marked Witch of Jupiter Warcasket. If you decide to take the plunge, I’ll commission an ace unit just for you—loaded with upgrades from that very model.”

  Mag’s eyes flared, a rush of disbelief and intrigue cutting through her like a pulse of adrenaline. “That’s possible?” she asked, the words slipping out before she could stop them.

  Ivan chuckled darkly, reaching into the folds of his jacket. What he handed her wasn’t a photo, nor a piece of paper covered in technical jargon. No. Instead, it was a set of detailed sketches—lines sharp and precise, the marks of an artist who had spent hours, if not days, bringing something monstrous into being.

  She took them into both hands, fingers trembling as the designs unfolded before her. The graphite strokes were clean, calculated—shaded with charcoal in rich layers. A splash of red pencil here and there, as if a drop of blood had been spilled into the edges. The Warcasket stood in profile, its arms hanging loosely at its sides like an apex predator, ready to pounce at a moment’s notice.

  Its design was brutal—there was nothing sleek or graceful about it. The shoulders were massive, shield-like, adorned with slashes of vents cut into the plating. The barrel of a beam cannon snaked down its spine, long and menacing like the barrel of a rifle aimed straight at the stars. One mono-eye gleamed from beneath a layered visor—cold, unblinking, like some grim knight’s helm. The faceplate was angular, harsh, almost ceremonial in its composition—but there was no glory in it. Only death. The kind of death that had been etched in the very fabric of this machine.

  The armor was jagged, brutal, as if designed for nothing more than destruction. Scorched paneling ran along its form even in the concept art—a testament to the violence it was made to endure and unleash.

  Mag’s heart skipped. “When’s training start?” she asked, her voice steady but edged with something she couldn’t quite name.

  Ivan’s eyes gleamed, that same smile stretching across his face, sharp and dangerous. “Now,” he said. His words were a promise and a warning wrapped into one. “You and me. Right now.”

  Mag’s couldn’t help but grin, her heart thundering in her chest. The idea of becoming one with that beast of a machine, of feeling its power surge beneath her like a wild thing waiting to be tamed—it was intoxicating. It was the edge she’d always craved.

  Carmen chimed in with a chuckle, shaking her head. “Go easy on her, Ivan. She’s new to this.”

  Yuri’s voice cut through the banter like a cold wind. “Don’t break her, Ivan,” he said, but the edge of humor in his voice betrayed a genuine concern. Carmen flicked him off in response, her grin sharp and mischievous.

  Mag’s smiled, feeling a kinship grow among them. “So, where are we hitting? Pirates? Aliens? Or…?”

  Ivan leaned forward, his expression hardening. “Nope,” he said. His eyes were dark, calculating. “The Block.”

  Marcus

  “A-are you sure we’re allowed to be doing this, here?” Marcus stuttered, his voice a shaky laugh that betrayed his nervousness.

  Margaret didn’t respond with words. Her eyes, narrowed and focused, did all the speaking for her. The towel that had been loosely draped around her shoulders fell with deliberate slowness into her lap, leaving her skin exposed to the dim light of the room. Marcus’s gaze snapped to her, and his eyes widened, his breath catching as he saw her. She was light-skinned, her chest soft and inviting in the haze of the low light.

  She moved slowly, almost teasingly, her body shifting left and right, deliberately brushing against him. Marcus, caught between disbelief and instinct, squeezed her lightly—his hands acting before his mind could process.

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  Margaret moaned softly, the sound barely a whisper as her breath hitched. “Just don’t be too loud,” she murmured, her lips curling into a seductive smile. “Then we’ll be fine.”

  “You know we’ve got singles,” Marcus muttered, a nervous laugh breaking the tension.

  Margaret only chuckled, her skin slick with sweat as she rose, then lowered herself onto him. As she brushed against him, Marcus’s heart raced, his face heating up as he glanced nervously left and right, the tension rising.

  “Woah…” he whispered under his breath, his gaze flickering with a mixture of awe and desire. The sensation of her moving against him was overwhelming, the warmth, the softness—everything felt so raw, so intense.

  Margaret moved quicker, and the sound of their bodies coming together echoed in the room. The rhythm of their movements became more frantic, their breathing heavier, each sound punctuating the silence of the late hour. It was nearing 3 a.m.—the only reason Marcus had agreed to this. The rest of the building was asleep, and the only people nearby were in the fitness section, too far to hear or care.

  The slap of flesh on flesh filled the air, mixing with the heavy thumping of their bodies. Marcus could feel his pulse in his ears, but Margaret’s voice cut through the haze. “D-don’t stop…!” she gasped, turning her head to look at him, her eyes pleading, filled with a need that mirrored his own. “Please, don’t!”

  His answer came in the form of speed, pushing deeper, moving faster, as the world around them narrowed to just the heat of their bodies and the wild pounding of their hearts.

  But, even as that moment unraveled in the quiet of the room, another battle was taking place.

  Iman was dodging. Her body moved like a fluid shadow, slipping just outside the reach of her opponent—a towering woman, a fighter who commanded the room. Tara, Squad Leader of the 34th, was no easy opponent. The auburn-haired giant stood a solid 5’11", her body carved from muscle, taller than even most of the men around. Her face was delicate in its own way—strong yet feminine, a blend of beauty and raw power that was impossible to ignore.

  The two of them were dressed in MMA fighting gear—helmets and gloves, ready to test their limits.

  Iman’s malt-colored skin glistened with sweat as she weaved through the makeshift ring. Her breath was heavy, the salty taste of sweat lingering on her lips. Beneath the heat of the moment, her emerald green eyes were sharp, focused, scanning Tara for an opening. She could feel the tightness in her chest, but there was a fire in her belly that refused to let her falter.

  Tara struck first, a quick jab aimed straight for Iman’s face, her knee following for more force. But the punch missed by a hair, brushing past Iman’s pigtail. She used the miss to her advantage, her body twisting as she drove the side of her leg into Tara’s midsection.

  Tara lurched backward, the force of the hit stealing the air from her lungs. She spat out her mouthguard, gasping for breath. The crowd around them was quiet, less for the excitement and more out of caution—they were more concerned with safety than entertainment. The room buzzed with the muffled energy of the women’s wing, the women’s training area, the place where strength was tested and bodies were pushed to their limits.

  Iman didn’t give her opponent a moment to recover. She took a deep breath and smirked, her own body bracing for the next move. “Pick it up,” she said, her voice breathless but commanding.

  Tara’s teeth were gritted as she shoved her mouthguard back into place. There was a flicker of respect in her eyes, and Iman saw it. A momentary flash before the battle resumed. “Good,” Iman whispered, almost to herself.

  Without warning, Tara surged forward, fists flying with precision, rapid jabs that tested Iman’s defenses. The blows came faster than Iman had expected, each one landing with a sharp crack against the air between them. Iman began to backpedal, her feet sliding against the floor as Tara pushed forward with brutal speed.

  Then came the kicks—high, whirling strikes that aimed for Iman’s ribs. One hit, then another.

  First, Tara broke Iman’s guard, the punch landing square in her left side. The impact tore through her, and Iman felt the jagged sting of pain shoot through her ribs. Her left eye bulged open in shock, and then, anger—the kind that burned like fire, smothering the pain, pushing it aside. The world around her narrowed, and she saw red.

  But Iman wasn’t done.

  Her grip tightened around Tara’s foot with a viciousness that surprised even herself. She moved in fast, her hand swinging upward for a punch that would crush Tara’s gut. But Tara wasn’t finished either.

  With the agility of a wild animal, Tara leapt into the air, launching herself with the foot still planted firmly on the ground. The move was fast—too fast—and Iman didn’t see it coming. She felt her entire body jerk sideways as the world spun violently. Her balance shattered, and the ground beneath her feet turned into nothing but a blur. Pain exploded through her chest as Tara’s foot connected, slamming into Iman with a sickening force.

  The world seemed to stop for a heartbeat.

  Then, everything crashed into place. Iman’s back slammed into the hard makeshift fence with bone-rattling impact. The fence buckled under the weight of her body, the metal groaning in protest as it bent. Iman’s helmet twisted violently, nearly slipping off her head. A jagged piece of the helmet bit into her chin, sending a sharp, irritating pain through her jaw.

  She didn’t scream.

  Instead, Iman growled—low, guttural, primal. A roar that surged from deep within her, something she didn’t even know she had in her.

  Her fingers twitched along her stomach, feeling the dull ache of the blow. The pain was nothing. She had been through worse.

  With a swift movement, Iman corrected her helmet, her teeth gritted against the searing throb in her chest. Her breath came in heavy, ragged gasps, but the fire inside her burned bright, and it screamed for revenge.

  She sprang to her feet in one fluid motion, her muscles coiling with deadly intent. Without a second’s hesitation, she charged.

  Tara, still recovering, kneeled on the floor, panting heavily. Her face was flushed, sweat dripping from her brow.

  “I-Iman, wait…” Tara’s voice broke through the chaos, but it did nothing to stop Iman’s advance.

  Iman didn’t stop.

  Tara, desperate, threw herself to the side and whipped a vicious sidekick toward Iman’s legs. The blow would have taken her down, but Iman was faster. With a grace that could only come from sheer rage, Iman leapt over the attack, her body soaring through the air, and before Tara could recover, Iman was back on her feet, poised for the next round.

  Tavian and Cassie stood apart from the crowd, arms crossed, their eyes fixed on the fight.

  “This is getting ridiculous,” Cassie muttered, her voice dripping with disdain.

  Tavian shot her a sharp look, but it was soft enough to mask his concern. “Let’s just get this over with. You know it’s better when we’re here. Iman gets… like this when we’re not around.”

  Cassie rolled her eyes, but there was no humor in it. “I’m confused why we’re even dealing with this. It’s just because some boy didn’t—”

  Her words were cut off when Paige, a girl with blue eyes and messy green hair, tugged at her arm.

  Paige shook her head slowly, her eyes soft with understanding. Her green locks swayed as she moved, the only sound in the room.

  “You know better…” Paige whispered, her voice carrying an unspoken weight.

  Cassie sneered, her frustration mounting. “She’s our commander, and she’s allowed to act like this.”

  Tavian exhaled heavily. “She’s a damn good one. And the last time something like this happened was—”

  “I think this is the worst it’s ever been,” Megan interrupted, her voice calm yet firm. Her curly brown hair framed her face as she turned to face the two girls. “Cassie, I get it. What happened wasn’t right. But let’s just ride this out.”

  Cassie’s hands balled into fists at her sides, and she spoke through gritted teeth. “Abuse isn’t okay.” The words sliced through the air like a blade. “She’s lashing out on us. On us!” She spun to face them, her chest heaving with the weight of the emotion pouring out. “We’ve fought side by side. I’ve killed for Iman. I’ve been loyal to her since the day she stepped in—and now this? A boy. A boy! Of all things… of all the enemies she’s vanquished, all the horrors she’s faced. It’s her getting rejected by some dumb boy that’s causing her to lose it?”

  Her voice cracked on the last word, her anger turning into something deeper, something far more fragile.

  For a moment, the room was silent. The only sound was the heavy, uneven breaths of the combatants. Then, a softer voice cut through the stillness.

  It was the ref. Her tone was almost squeaky, but it carried a knowing edge. Mari, with her curly dark hair and light Latina complexion, glanced up at the group.

  Mari stood off to the side, a small crate propped up beneath her so she could observe. “You know…Cassie...you went a bit crazy after what happened with Michael,” she said, a hint of playful judgment in her words.

  Cassie’s eyes snapped wide. “Oh my god, you are so not going to go there,” she spat, pointing an accusing finger at Mari.

  Mari rolled her eyes, unfazed.

  But Cassie wasn’t done. “For your information, me and Michael dated for nine months before he COMPLETELY ghosted me!” Her voice was rising, growing more heated. “Iman never knew Henryk. She just feels like she gave away something that she shouldn’t...”

  Mari continued to roll her eyes, the annoyance creeping into her voice. “Guys, Iman’s like... you know how her culture can be about stuff like that.” She scratched the back of her head, pausing for a moment as if trying to find the right words, before offering a suggestion. “Maybe... we should try to get her to talk to someone.”

  The words hit Iman like a slap. She flinched, her ears bristling in irritation. Talk to someone?

  Cassie had forgotten that fact. She—and even the others—forgot just how isolated Iman truly was. Her own army, her own team, and yet, they could never fully understand her. And good, maybe. She wasn’t like them. Never was. Henryk’s eyes—those eyes—were the only ones that could’ve understood hers. No one else.

  Iman’s thoughts were shattered as a punch landed straight in her chest. The force of the blow made her stagger back, her breath stolen from her.

  Tara stood there, watching her, eyes wide. “I-Iman, you okay...?”

  Iman didn’t answer. She didn’t need to.

  With a snarl, Iman swiped her arm to the side, knocking Tara off balance. Her fist connected with Tara’s jaw in a sickening thud, sending the girl’s head snapping to the side.

  “Come on... give me more!” Iman roared, blood trailing down her lip, her grin a wild, feral thing as Tara spat a tooth from the force of the punch.

  Tara’s eyes burned with fury. A primal scream tore from her throat, and with a surge of raw energy, she lunged at Iman, as if her body was a weapon, slamming into Iman with the full force of a linebacker in a drill. The impact sent shockwaves through Iman’s spine, and for a split second, her senses scrambled.

  But that was when Iman’s sixth sense kicked in.

  A smile curled at the corner of her lips—wolfish, predatory—and before Tara could move, Iman slammed both of her hands down onto Tara’s back. The girl crumpled forward, her body hitting the ground with a sickening thud. The room seemed to vibrate with the noise, the tension in the air thick as Iman landed on Tara, her body a crushing weight pinning her to the floor.

  The sound of the impact echoed off the walls, like the war cry of a thousand battles, and the fight was far from over. Iman was a whirlwind now, her body moving with a savage determination.

  “Iman, Iman!” Mari’s voice broke through the chaos, her eyes snapping away from the argument with Cassie and locking onto the fight.

  The other girls gathered around, the sound of their movements rushing like an incoming storm. They all stood, tense, as Iman locked Tara into a painful hold, forcing her arm into a maneuver that had Tara crying out for mercy. The desperation in Tara’s voice was clear as she begged, but Iman was relentless.

  “I give! I give!” Tara screamed, her face contorted in pain, but it was no use.

  And then, like a flash of lightning, Cassie tackled Iman from behind. The impact was brutal, sending both of them tumbling to the ground in a heap of limbs and fury. Iman’s smile didn’t falter; she knew this wasn’t just another fight. With Cassie, it was personal now. This was something deeper.

  Tara groaned beneath the weight of her own arm, her face twisting with grimace as she rolled onto her back. The burn of pain shot through her muscles, and she gasped for air, trying to push through the sting in her joints. Paige and Megan stood nearby, their arms resting on her shoulders, offering what little support they could as they watched their friend writhe in agony.

  “Tara, Tara...” Mari’s voice was slow and measured, a touch of concern creeping into her usually sharp tone.

  Tara took a deep breath, and then awkwardly raised her hands, her movements stiff. “I-I’m fine...fuck… that shit really hurt,” she muttered, rising slowly, her head throbbing. She scratched the back of her head, wincing as the pain hit her. She didn’t even want to look in a mirror—she could feel the swelling already. She’d need Tylenol, maybe more.

  Iman, however, was still on the ground, struggling beneath Cassie’s grip. Her chest heaved, and her breath came in ragged gasps, like the fight was still raging inside her.

  “Wait till I catch my breath, Cassie,” Iman whispered through clenched teeth.

  Cassie’s eyes widened. She had heard that tone before, the hint of something darker, something more lethal in Iman’s voice.

  “I said,” Iman repeated, her side profile sharp beneath the helmet, her green eyes glinting like daggers, “wait... till I catch my breath.”

  Five minutes later, Iman was leading the charge, her steps deliberate, the only path to their destination laid out before her. Her helmet was clenched tightly in her hand, her other hand pressed to her nose as blood seeped from it, dripping down in thin streams, staining her gloved fingers.

  She whistled, the sound sharp, almost mocking. “…what a training exercise,” she said with a dry chuckle, glancing over her shoulder at the girls trailing behind her. But there was no amusement in their eyes, only silence.

  Tara, her head aimed straight ahead, kept her gaze fixed on Iman’s back. The blood in her mouth made it difficult to speak, but she managed to clear her throat and spit off to the side. “Tara, you did good out there… but you’ve got to cover your face a bit better,” Iman added, her voice almost a taunt.

  Tara didn’t reply. She was too focused on the burning ache in her chest, the hot metal taste of blood in her mouth. The door to the locker room loomed ahead. Mari, walking behind, shot a glance over her shoulder. She caught the look in Tara’s eyes—dark, seething, cold. Tara wasn’t looking at Iman like a teammate anymore. She was staring at her as though she were prey.

  Iman’s voice broke the tension, casual, almost too light. “The moment I got on top of you... there really wasn’t anything you could do, huh?” She chuckled, the sound rough, gritty.

  If this had been a normal training session, Tara would’ve taken it in stride. She’d have been eager for the challenge, her pride as sharp as her combat instincts. But now, all she could see was red, and it wasn’t just the blood trickling from her mouth.

  “Yeah, guess not,” Tara replied, her voice low, tinged with something darker. She was starting to forget that Iman was her commanding officer, and it wasn’t just her. Others felt it too—there was a distance now, a fracture. “I was surprised too. The number of near-illegal hits. Needing Mari to rip you off of me... Are you really doing this shit right now?” The words weren’t angry, but they held a weight to them, something sharp beneath the surface.

  Iman felt it then—a flicker of guilt, a sting in her throat that she couldn’t swallow down. She tried to push it away, but it lingered, like a cold hand against her chest.

  She sneered, whirling to face Tara. “I can’t believe you’re being like this after a training session. I thought there was a reason I made you leader of Squad 3.”

  Tara met her gaze, unflinching. “Yeah, sure, Iman, that’s exactly what this is.” Her eyes narrowed, a smirk creeping onto her lips as she tilted her head upward.

  The lockers were next to each other. Iman’s and Tara’s. They used to laugh, share meals, swap stories between missions. She remembered the quiet moments after their recon runs, talking about the Pippard series, brainstorming ways to push their Warcaskets to the limit. Iman had come up with the idea for the extra thrusters, had Ernest install them... the kind of bond forged in shared ideas.

  Now, it all felt like it was slipping through her fingers.

  Iman sneered, her hand gripping the lock to her locker, twisting it with a sharp click. The sound of her gym gear being tossed into the locker echoed like the ticking of a bomb, each object clattering against metal with a cold, unforgiving sound. “If you can’t handle the heat, there are plenty of people at House Mercury who’d gladly take your leadership position,” she spat.

  Tara didn’t flinch, but Tavian’s voice cut through the tension, sharp and commanding. “Iman,” she said, the softness gone, replaced by a hardened edge. “Enough. Now. I mean it.”

  Iman turned to face Tavian, but it was the last thing she wanted to hear.

  “I saved your life,” Tavian’s voice was steel, slicing through the air like a blade. “Every single person in this room has killed for you, followed your orders without question.” She pointed down at the floor, her finger trembling with barely contained fury. “This whole fleet is loyal to you—more loyal than fucking Zephyr. And now you’re abusing the people around you. This is enough.”

  The words hit Iman like a fist to the gut. For a moment, she couldn’t breathe.

  Tara’s voice slid into the silence, unrelenting, like nails scraping on metal. “We’ve all been there, Iman. You’re pushing everyone too hard. Even the people you care about. You’re losing control, and we’re not going to let you drag us down with you.”

  The room was tense, thick with unspoken things. Mari, Paige, and the others stood in the background, their eyes flickering between Iman and Tavian. The pressure in the air was palpable. What had caused all of this? Was it really just the rejection? Did Iman’s isolation have such a weight that it was suffocating her?

  Tavian took a deep breath, her eyes softening ever so slightly. “I... I don’t know what’s hurting you, Iman. But there’s nothing to be gained from hurting the people closest to you. Nothing.”

  Iman scratched the back of her neck, the motion almost desperate. She couldn’t hold the weight of their stares, couldn’t bear the sudden, suffocating guilt that clung to her like a second skin. “I—I’m not hurting anyone,” she muttered, her voice cracking as she tried to push the words out. But they didn’t sound convincing—not even to herself.

  "Look at my fucking face!" Tara snapped, her voice a whip of raw anger. "You did so much illegal shit during that fistfight that—"

  "In battle, you’re going to need to think ahead," Iman cut in, her words sharp, like a blade drawn across steel. "I already have the ability of foresight. Maybe you should’ve tossed in a few of your own dirty hits to spice things up a bit."

  Tara scoffed, a humorless sound. "...Are you for real right now?" She paused, her finger jabbing toward her own bruised face. "Zachary works next to Zephyr, Wizard! What the hell am I going to tell him when I see him?"

  Iman stared at her, her gaze calculating, cool. She tilted her head to the side, the motion sharp, like an owl hunting in the dark. "Well, now that I’ve had a good look at you, I’d bet he’d walk right out the door." Her chuckle was low, the sound rich with mocking glee. The others froze, staring at Iman with a mixture of shock and disgust. But Iman? She was laughing. "Hope you didn’t fuck him yet..." she drawled, dragging out the last word, her voice like venom.

  "You're fucking gross," Cassie snapped, her voice cutting the air as she rolled back onto the balls of her feet and turned away, tossing a wave over her shoulder.

  Iman smiled. "Good. I don’t even know why you came to begin with."

  Cassie halted, her shoulders tight. "I came to make sure my friends weren’t getting abused by an abuser, which you’ve hidden all this time," she spat, the words laced with disgust.

  Iman’s eyes narrowed, the sneer on her face twisting into something colder. "Stop calling me that... No one’s hurt. This was just training. Yesterday was just training." She pivoted, her sharp gaze sweeping over all of them, her tone growing even colder. "It’s your fault for not being able to keep up. We’re going to be sent to the block in a week or two. They’ll be expecting us to run security detail and keep everything in line while the speeches are going on. We can’t be caught lacking."

  "Sure, Iman," Cassie responded with a false sweetness, her voice dripping sarcasm. "That’s why you’re doing this, right? No wonder Henryk left your ass. At least Piper has a heart and..."

  Cassie’s words were swallowed by a brutal crack as Iman’s hand slammed into the side of the blue locker. The sharp, metallic sound echoed like a death knell. Iman’s features were twisted in a snarl, her teeth flashing like a wolf's, her green eyes burning with a primal hunger. This was a side of Iman no one had ever seen before.

  "I’ll kill you," she whispered, the words cold and void of any warmth, like a death sentence.

  Before anyone could react, Iman was on Cassie, grabbing her by the blood-soaked locks and yanking her to the floor. Cassie’s attempt to rise was futile, and Iman’s fist came crashing down. Blow after blow, savage and relentless, each one a promise of destruction. Cassie’s cries filled the air, but they did nothing to stop Iman’s fury.

  Tara, struggling with her own injuries, looked on helplessly. The others scrambled to pull Iman off, but she was a whirlwind of violence, her fists a storm.

  "Mari!" Paige shouted, her voice breaking the chaos. But it was too late—Iman’s elbow slammed into the side of Mari’s cheek, sending her sprawling to the side, the impact brutal enough to leave Mari dazed. Paige rushed to her side, but Mari, already regaining her bearings, shoved her away.

  “She’s going to kill her!” Mari screamed, her voice frantic as she crawled toward Cassie. But she was too slow, her arm stretched across the locker room floor like a desperate plea. Then came the sound of footsteps—a sudden, unfamiliar weight in the room.

  A figure, barely clothed, appeared in the doorway, his form barely visible in the dim light.

  The unmistakable question burned in the air: Why the hell was there a boy in the girls’ locker room?

  Especially Lieutenant Marcus. But that wasn’t the last thing on her mind as she watched Marcus slam his arms around her, yanking her and Iman to the side of the lockers with the force of a wrecking ball.

  "I-Iman, enough! Iman!" Marcus shouted, his voice strained. But his words died in his throat as the back of his head whipped back, his chin and lower lip exploding in a spray of blood. Iman’s body jerked violently in his grip, the fury of her struggle almost knocking him off balance. She was about to lunge for Cassie again, but Tavian’s quick hands caught her, and he yanked Cassie away, dragging her both out of the locker room.

  "Fucking Christ... Iman, enough!" Marcus snapped, his chest heaving with the force of the encounter.

  Around them, the locker room was still, the tension thick enough to cut with a knife. The only thing Marcus had on was a towel, clinging to his hips, his expression a mix of fury and disbelief. The girls stared at him, their faces a confused mess of emotions, some with shock, some with horror. Then, Margaret emerged, wearing her own towel, stepping out of the locker room just as Iman’s gaze locked onto her.

  “Oh. You've got to be fucking kidding me,” Iman hissed, her voice dripping with venom. She glanced from Marcus to Margaret, a disgusted laugh escaping her lips. "You two... in the bathroom? You've got singles!" She shouted, her eyes widening with contempt. "The fucking audacity of you two... you're disgusting."

  Margaret’s gaze dropped to the floor, the shock on her face quickly replaced with a bored exhale. But Iman wasn’t finished. Her eyes narrowed, green and feral, as she pointed a shaking finger at Margaret. “Girls like you are the problem in this day and age.”

  Margaret rolled her eyes, barely containing her annoyance. “Of course, Iman," she sighed, her gaze flicking briefly to the girls still lingering by the lockers, trying to steady their ragged breathing.

  "Margaret, can you handle them?" Marcus asked, his voice low but strained.

  Margaret nodded, waving the others out of the room. She moved with a strange calmness, almost as though she were completely unbothered by the scene. Marcus, though, didn’t budge. He stayed there, on top of Iman, holding her down longer than necessary. The silence that filled the room was thick and suffocating.

  “…Are you good? Are you calm?” Marcus asked, his voice quieter now, almost tender.

  Iman’s glare was sharp, her chest rising and falling with heavy breaths. "N-No..." She spat, her voice low and jagged, as though each word was a blade. "I want more. I want to hurt."

  Marcus’s eyes tightened, his jaw clenching. "Iman, I don’t know what the fuck is wrong with you... I’m out here with a towel around me, practically on top of you, and this looks fucking weird. You know why? Because you were beating the shit out of your subordinates, an inch from their fucking lives."

  Iman rolled her eyes, the motion almost dismissive. "Training is—"

  "Iman, you aren’t stupid," Marcus snapped, his voice sharp. "Christ, I remember when Abrahms was being abusive toward the first and second years. You kicked his ass for that... you didn’t let that shit slide."

  Iman's eyes flicked away, her expression cold. "He really deserved it..."

  "And here you are," Marcus continued, his voice low but forceful, "doing the same damn thing, but Abrahms was a coward. He liked to fuck with people on the administration level, play mind games. You, Iman, you’re hurting people—genuinely hurting others."

  Iman’s body stiffened, her face momentarily blank as if the words were just beginning to sink in. "Get off of me," she said, her voice a near whisper.

  "Wh—what?" Marcus stammered, the whole situation turning strange now, almost surreal. It was like she’d just come to some realization.

  "Marcus," Iman hissed, her voice breaking through the tension like a crack of thunder. "Get off of me right now. You get the fuck off of me. You’re half-naked and you are..." Her voice trailed off, her chest heaving.

  "Iman, I will, but you can’t go after Cassie or—"

  "Oh my God, oh my God!" Iman shrieked, her hands flying to her face as though his touch burned her. Her head snapped violently, crashing into the floor with a sickening thud.

  "Fucking hell, Iman!" Marcus cursed, his voice filled with panic and frustration as he scrambled off her. Iman slithered to the corner, her body twisting like a serpent, her hands frantically clutching at her skin, trying to hold herself together. Marcus knelt, watching her, his face filled with confusion and helplessness.

  "D-don’t touch me… no man… Henryk," Iman murmured, her hands trembling as she clutched at her head. "Marcus... why did you have to bring him that night? Why did you have to... why?"

  Tears began to well in her eyes, slipping down her cheeks in slow, silent rivers.

  Marcus just stared at her, his throat tight, his hand hovering uselessly in the air. "Iman..." he said, his voice soft, almost apologetic. His fingers twitched, but he didn’t move. What could he possibly say to fix this?

  Iman continued, her voice steady but laced with venom, “My father would kill you. Henryk should… he owns me now.”

  Marcus’s eyes widened, his confusion palpable. “Huh?” he rasped. “O-own? What the hell, Iman?” He pulled his hand away, the weight of her words sinking in. “Henryk doesn’t own anyone. Especially not you. Whatever you’re feeling, it’s just in your head.”

  “My head...” Iman’s laughter was sharp, bitter. “It must be so nice to be like you. To have all the freedom to ignore things that matter. People like you, Piper, and the rest of them—everyone’s blind to a higher calling.” Her voice dropped to a murmur, as if speaking to herself now. “None of you get it.”

  Marcus inhaled deeply, trying to steady himself. “Iman… how long have we known each other?”

  She rolled her eyes. “Years.”

  “Be specific,” he pressed.

  Iman sneered. “Two, three years.”

  “Almost as long as I’ve known Lucas. It was him who introduced us.” Marcus’s voice softened with the memory.

  Iman’s face twisted in a grim smile. “You were such a dork back then.”

  Marcus chuckled, shaking his head. “Yeah, well, that was before the pot… and the rest of it.”

  Iman snorted. “You're still a dork. Just one who can’t see straight now.”

  Marcus’s voice grew quieter, more serious. “Maybe that’s why Lucas wanted me to introduce you to Henryk. Thought you’d get along, you two. He thought you might need someone.”

  Iman’s brow furrowed. “Wait, what?”

  Marcus chuckled, though it was empty. “He said you were a lonely girl. That you needed someone to… understand.”

  Iman scoffed. “What, like it’s special? All kids are lonely.”

  “Yeah, well… he thought you needed more than just anyone. That you needed someone who could see it. Someone who could help you.” Marcus’s eyes were searching her face, but she refused to meet them. “Iman, this—what you’re doing with Henryk, it’s not healthy. You’re fixating, and maybe it’s because you’re hurt, maybe it’s something deeper. But this isn’t the way. You need to talk to someone. A therapist. A priest. Get it out, because you’re just hurting yourself—and others.”

  Iman’s eyes narrowed, cold and hard. “A priest?” She spat the word out, her voice dripping with disgust. “Confession? God, Marcus, you weren’t lying about the weed shit.” She shook her head, her face contorting with frustration. “You think a priest’s going to fix this? You think talking about it’s going to help?”

  Marcus looked at her, trying to read her, but there was nothing but cold defiance in her eyes. “Iman, I don’t know the pain you’re carrying. But I’m trying. I really am. I’m trying to help, but you’re hurting others in the process. This isn’t just about you anymore. And you need to see that.”

  Marcus steadily rose, but Iman’s eyes flashed up to him, her glare like a blade. “Where are you going?” she demanded, her voice a low, cutting hiss.

  Marcus raised an eyebrow, unfazed. “Leaving. This is too much,” he muttered, turning his back to her and starting to walk down the long hallway of lockers. But then, something made him pause. He hesitated, his shoulders tense.

  “Iman,” he said, his tone softening just a touch, though his words carried the weight of something deep. “It’s one thing to believe in something, but to let it control you like this… I get it. You’re afraid. Afraid of the punishment you think is coming for you.” He turned slightly, his gaze landing on her. “Whatever happened between you and Henryk… was it modest? No. But you want to know something? Henryk didn't even say hi to me, and we saved each other's lives. He was in such a rush with his own shit that he didn't even stop to acknowledge me, and we’ve known each other a lot longer than you and him.”

  Iman’s voice cut through the tension, blunt and sharp. “You shook your ass on him?” she shot at him.

  Marcus went still, his jaw tightening, the silence stretching painfully. When he spoke again, his words were deliberate, measured. “…All I’ll say is this: stop hurting people. You’re our commander. We look up to you. We love you. But we’re not dogs. You can’t keep treating us like shit and expect us to still be loyal. Iman, we both watched Band of Brothers. You said it yourself—those men should’ve fragged Captain Sobel.”

  Iman sneered, her lips curling up into something almost feral. “He deserved it.”

  Marcus’s voice sharpened, a flicker of anger in his eyes. “Sobel wasn’t beating his men, though. He wasn’t trying to destroy the people following him. He might’ve been a piece of shit, but he wasn’t trying to tear them down.” His words hit hard, like an accusation.

  And then, as the weight of his words sank in, he turned, the tension between them thick in the air. Iman was left standing there, the silence pressing in on her. The hallway stretched out, long and empty, like a cold reminder of the isolation that hung between them.