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.

Inside, beneath the quiet persona, I was someone else entirely. My real name was Lieutenant Colonel Celeste Navarro, United States Army Military Intelligence. I had served overseas, facilitated covert extractions, and spent a decade studying how power rots from the inside when no one is watching. At Red Bluff, no one saw me as anyone worth noticing, and that was the greatest advantage I had.

Training began at six. By five-thirty we lined up in the barracks courtyard, sweat already soaking through our undershirts. Private Lila Durant, barely nineteen and fresh out of high school in Arkansas, nudged my arm gently.

“Peyton, you need to hurry,” she whispered with a tremor in her voice. “First Sergeant Briggs is looking rough this morning. Rougher than usual.”

I swallowed hard in an imitation of fear. “I am trying. My boots got twisted and the laces are shot. I am not used to equipment like this.”

She nodded, sympathetic. “I can help you later if you want.”

Her kindness tightened something in my chest.