Vortex

  The jungle stink like sweat and blood. My chest heavin'. Muscles screamin'. Every breath burn like hellfire.

  We runnin'. We crawlin'. We marchin'. Suns go down, but this grind? It don’t stop.

  Canny stumble, barely catchin’ herself. Lanny draggin’ his feet like he one step from fallin’ six feet under. But that trainer? Man don’t let up. His voice bursts through the dark like a damn cannon.

  "Pick up the pace, you maggots! You want to rest? Rest when you're dead!"

  I don’t even know how long it’s been. Time don’t mean nothin’ no more—just pain. My lungs raw. Sweat stingin’ my eyes. Ain't nobody talkin'. Ain’t nobody dumb enough to try.

  But he still goin’. Don’t even breathe like us. Don’t need rest. Just marchin’ ahead, big-ass cigar clenched in his teeth, eyes burnin’ through the dark. He don’t sweat. Don’t stumble. A machine built for war.

  And us? We ain’t shit.

  "Tonight," he say, voice rollin’ over us like thunder, "you will fire in the dark. And if you miss—" He spits somethin’ dark and goey that falls directly on my boot. "You will stay up until the st damn target is hit."

  A groan ripple through the squad, but ain’t nobody protest. We learned better.

  We reach the field. Weapons id out—sleek, metallic, hummin’ like they got a pulse. The Argov rifles. Straight-up sorcery in steel form.

  Trainer start pacin’. "These are not your grandfather’s rifles. These are everything." He lift his own, and when he fire? That shot rip through the dirt like a damn storm. Another—light carve a bright-white gash in the dark. Third—soundwave sp through the air, shakin’ my skull.

  "Argov energy is neutral," he say. "It does what you command. Fire a bullet of compressed air. Release a siren to deafen your enemy. Use heat, cold, pressure—control it. Or die."

  Then the targets pop up.

  Bck discs. No lights. No markers. Ain’t no way to hit ‘em unless you see what ain’t there.

  "First round: night vision. If you cannot strike in the dark, you are dead weight."

  First recruit fire. Miss. Another. Miss. Some get close. Close ain’t good enough.

  Canny step up. Steady herself. Breathe. Fire. Miss.

  Again. Miss.

  Lanny grittin’ his teeth. His shot damn near hit—but ‘damn near’ don’t count for nothin’.

  Trainer exhale smoke. "Useless."

  Then—crack.

  A disk shatters, it's pieces falling into the mud.

  Then another. And another. Perfect hits.

  I turn. And I see him.

  Min-Joon Park.

  He stand calm while the rest of us pantin', shakin’. Hands steady. Eyes sharp. Like he done this a thousand times.

  Trainer nod, just once. "That," he say, "is a soldier."

  Min-Joon lower his rifle. No words. No flex. Just quiet confidence.

  I swallow hard.

  Ain’t never talked to him much. But I need to.

  Before my turn, I step over, voice low. "How?"

  Min-Joon gnce at me. Then he chuckle.

  "I pyed lots of games," he whisper.

  I blink.

  He lean in, voice smooth. "But either way—adjust for wind, steady your core, exhale before you fire. Don't just see. Feel. If you only rely on your eyes, you'll fail."

  It’s quick. It’s simple. But it’s enough.

  My turn.

  I step up, rifle heavy in my grip. Trainer watchin’.

  I breathe.

  Listen.

  The wind shift. A whisper of movement. A sound that don’t belong.

  I fire.

  A hum, a split-second crack—then thunk.

  Target down.

  Again. Adjust. Fire. Another hit.

  The dark move different now. I see it. Feel it. By the end, I ain’t one of the ones left standin’ in failure. Ain’t one of the ones waitin’ for another shot at redemption.

  Canny and Lanny, though? They still out there.

  I catch ‘em in my periphery—shoulders tight, exhaustion weighin’ ‘em down. Their shots go wide. Their hands shakin’.

  Trainer ain’t lettin’ up. Ain’t never do.

  "You will fire until you are dead on your feet," he snarl. "Until your bones scream for rest. Until your mind shuts down, and even then—"

  His boot sm the dirt.

  "You will fire."

  I step back. Should feel relieved. Should feel proud.

  I don’t.

  Even when I make it back to the tents, colpse onto that hard-ass cot, I still hear ‘em.

  I close my eyes.

  They still firin’.

  Just crack—crack—crack.

  I roll onto my side, pressing my face into the cot, but the sounds follow.

  Gunfire. Orders. The ragged breaths of the desperate.

  I ain't sleepin’ tonight.

  Ain't nobody sleepin’ tonight.