No warm welcome. No backstory.
Just a transfer order that made everyone whisper in the barracks the night before.
“She’s hurt.”
“She’s a desk type trying to play tough.”
“She’s here because somebody high up feels sorry for her.”
People get bold when they don’t know the truth.
And Huxley loved bold.
“How many push-ups does it take to snap a wrist, Sarge?” he called again, grinning like this was entertainment.
“Or did you trip over your own ego and land on your face?”
More laughter. The kind that tests how far you can go before someone bites back.
Grace didn’t blink.
That bothered him more than anything.
Off to the side, beyond the boundary markers, a man stood on a low rise watching the whole thing. Older. Broad shoulders. Hands clasped behind his back like he was carved there.
General Thomas Barkley.
He didn’t step in.
