First Sergeant Briggs thought he was 𝕙𝕦𝕞𝕚𝕝𝕚𝕒𝕥𝕚𝕟𝕘 a mere recruit in the Sonora desert, unaware that he was actually signing his own death warrant in front of an infiltrated superior officer.

The heat at Red Bluff Training Depot, somewhere in the barren outskirts of El Paso County, felt like a physical force. It clung to the skin, crawled beneath fatigues, and turned the morning into a trial before the day even began. The sun rose early there, dragging a curtain of white glare over the concrete and chain-link fences. The air smelled of hot metal and scorched sand, and the wind carried grit that gathered in your teeth if you dared open your mouth.

I was known as Private Peyton Winslow, twenty-six years old, allegedly from a little place in rural Arizona that no one could find without squinting at the map. I dressed like someone who had never quite fit anywhere. My boots were laced unevenly and my bun was regulation length but messy enough to invite scolding. I kept my gaze low and my movements timid because that was the assignment.