The recruits standing nearby stared openly while the humid air settled heavy around us, because beneath the torn fabric lay scars no training accident could explain away.

Burn marks crossed my ribs in jagged lines.

Surgical seams curved beneath my chest.

Deep trauma damage stretched along my side where metal fragments had once torn through flesh violently enough to leave permanent distortion behind.

Vega stopped moving entirely.

The cruelty vanished from his face so quickly it almost looked unreal.

Avery swallowed hard before speaking quietly.

“What unit were you attached to?”

Not “what happened.”

Not “who hurt you.”

Unit.

Because he recognized the injuries immediately.

Combat damage.

Real combat damage.

I tried answering him, although another spasm locked my chest before words fully formed.

Avery snapped back into motion.

“Get oxygen over here now!”

Another medic sprinted from the Humvee while Vega continued staring at me like he no longer recognized the recruit he had spent six weeks humiliating publicly.

Avery pressed an oxygen mask gently against my face.

“Easy breaths.”

I gripped his sleeve weakly.

“No hospital.”

His eyes narrowed slightly.

“You’re barely breathing.”

“No hospital,” I repeated.

Because hospitals create records.

Records create questions.

Questions uncover identities better left buried.

Avery looked at the scars again, then lowered his voice.

“Who were you before this place?”

That question hurt more than the pain in my ribs.

Before this place.

Before this name.

Before Fort Dalton.

I closed my eyes briefly while memories pushed through anyway.

Dry wind across broken concrete.

Rotors overhead.

Someone screaming coordinates over a radio.

The smell of burning fuel mixing with blood and dust.

My old call sign echoing through static.

Not Rowan.

The other one.

The woman officially erased years ago.

The Truth They Couldn’t Ignore
Avery carefully lifted more torn fabric away from my side while several recruits audibly reacted behind him.

One whispered a prayer under his breath.

Another looked sick.

Because the damage extended farther than anyone expected.

Across my lower ribs sat faded impact scars from shrapnel removal procedures, while deeper trauma marks near my abdomen revealed wounds no ordinary recruit should have survived at all.

Vega finally spoke, although his voice sounded strangely uncertain now.

“What exactly is this?”

Avery didn’t answer immediately.

His attention had fixed on something smaller beneath my collarbone.

A faded black marking.

Numbers.

Coordinates.

Recognition crossed his face instantly.

Not a question.

A realization.

The recruits exchanged nervous looks while the heat pressed down around us harder than before.

For the first time since arriving at Fort Dalton, Vega looked genuinely unsettled.

Avery stared directly at me.

“How old are you really?”

I hesitated before answering.

“Twenty-six.”

Shock rippled through the formation immediately.

Until that moment, everyone assumed I had barely finished high school.

Now every strange detail suddenly rearranged itself inside their heads.

The silence broke only when a black SUV rolled onto the training road fast enough to spray gravel behind it.