I woke up bright and early, made my bed spotless—fit for a king. My uniform, for once, was just like the others: crisp, clean, practically perfect. It fit snug, like I actually belonged here.

And then, like any other morning, she walked in.

I snapped to attention, throwing my whole body into the salute. "Good morning, Lieutenant! I’m sorry for sneaking out and not meeting your standards! I hope I’ve shown improvement!"

She barely glanced at me. "This is the fantastic apology you planned? Really? This is the best you could come up with?"

"Well… yeah." I shrugged. "I haven’t been eating out of bins, didn’t break out even once, and I haven't even argued with anyone besides these bastards," I said, gesturing to the sleeping bodies around us. "So come on, what else do you want?"

She folded her arms, unimpressed. "Another apple would be fantastic. And maybe sticking to the promises you make? You know, not running to Alexandria? Not arguing with someone who could kill you with a thought? Is that so difficult?"

I winced, then lied through my teeth, guilt flaring up for just a second. "Okay, yeah, I felt bad even as I did it. So, you know. Here."

I tossed her the apple I got from Tom yesterday. Of course, I got her an apple. You really think I wouldn’t?

She caught it effortlessly, the gracious bastard, then gave me a long, skeptical look before rolling her eyes. "Fine. Don't do it again."

Without another word, she banged the pipe with her tranquilizer, barking the usual: "Wake up, you lazy shits!" Then she turned for the door—only to pause and glance back.

"Oh, by the way, Boris, I didn't give you permission to speak. Give me five hundred pushups."

She took a bite of the apple and disappeared.

Have I ever mentioned that she was nice? Because I want it on record that I was wrong. That woman is insane. The worst person I’ve ever met.

But I did the pushups before breakfast, panting as I walked into the mess hall.

Breakfast was… awkward. As expected. But not as bad as I thought.

Anna tried her best not to even glance at me from the other end of the table. Kate sat away from Marnus for what felt like the first time in weeks, while he stared miserably into his plate like he’d made a terrible mistake.

Growing up with Maria, Natalie, Natalia, and all the other girls in my church had taught me one thing—when they were angry, you pushed back if you thought you were right, then left them alone for a few days. Let them cool down. Then, when the timing was right, you spoke to them again. Generally the best way to get your point across.

When we got to Sector B, a new batch of Lieutenants was waiting. While Lieutenant Zenzele shouted her usual mix of "encouragement"—running, pull-ups, more godforsaken push-ups—the new guys just watched. No card games, no side comments, just walking around like vultures.

One of them had their eyes linger on me for too long as she walked past. I flipped her off.

She didn’t react. Didn’t flinch, didn’t scowl, didn’t even look away.

Just kept walking.

Fucking weirdo.

After we endured the usual morning torture, we were sent back to our rooms. I did as I was told—a thousand sprawls, the one-two on the bag (which, by the way, I was practically perfect at now—no, I wasn’t proud of it, shut up), and then practiced with the pistol.

“I see you’re training hard,” came a voice, low and smooth, right next to me.

I flinched, stumbling back. "Shit—don't do that!"

The lieutenant grinned.

And for a second—just a second—I forgot where I was.

Because it wasn’t her standing there anymore.

It was Sister Marina.

Not in her face. Not in her voice. But in that grin. That same, unshakably warm, effortlessly kind smile—the kind that once made the world feel safer. The kind that told me I wasn’t just another orphan to be forgotten.

That I mattered.

A sharp ache bloomed in my chest. She’s not her.

It didn’t stop the hollow, splintering feeling in my ribs.

I looked away, locking my eyes onto the gun in my hands.

She didn’t seem to notice my discomfort—or if she did, she let it slide. Her voice carried something unfamiliar. Something close to pride.

"I opened the door, watched you for a while. Even walked across the room. You didn’t break focus once."

Her fingers brushed the back of my head, just for a second.

“Well done, Boris.”

I forced a shrug, but my stomach twisted at the warmth in her tone. She’s not Sister Marina. I reminded myself. Don’t get upset. Stay calm. It’s just the lieutenant.

"If you’re concentrating this hard," she mused, voice still light, "I’d almost believe you actually want to win the tournament."

I scoffed, rolling my eyes. "Why would I go anywhere? Your command is just so fantastic."

She gave me a playful eye roll before stepping back into the center of the room.

"Right then, today we’re going over knife-fighting techniques. Long as you're not trying to chase me off like yesterday?" That same glint of amusement flickered in her eyes.

Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.

"If that’s an option, I’m definitely taking it," I muttered.

"Fat chance. Get your ass over here."

She held out a knife.

The teasing vanished the moment I took it. Her voice sharpened, turning crisp, commanding.

"Knives are for ending fights quickly. Not dueling. Not intimidation. Kill or disable, then get away. Understood?"

I nodded, rolling the blade between my fingers, feeling the weight of it. She watched, unimpressed.

"First, your grip." She stepped in close, adjusting my fingers, her touch light but precise. "Hold it like this."

Her hands made sure I wasn’t messing it up, her body heat noticeable in the small space between us.

"There are two primary grips," she continued, adjusting the knife in my hands "Forward—blade up, meant for slashing and thrusting. Reverse—blade down, better for close stabs and control. Which one feels better?"

I tested both, instinct pulling me toward the forward grip. I liked having the edge pointed at them rather than me.

"This one."

She nodded. "Figures. You’re aggressive. That grip’s better for attacking, but it also means you need to be faster. Precise. You miss, you die."

She stepped back, raising her own knife in a relaxed stance. Too relaxed.

"Now, footwork. A knife fight is like any other fight, but far more dangerous. Side steps, angles, quick lunges. You don’t want to be in front of their blade, and you definitely don’t want to get stuck brawling." Her eyes flicked up knowingly. "Which I know you love to do—saw it when you sparred with Lieutenant Galina. Try that against a knife, and sure, maybe you win… but two minutes later, you’d be dead."

She shifted her weight smoothly, feet light, blade steady. Controlled. Effortless. Deadly.

I copied her movements, feeling how different it was from just throwing punches. Everything was sharper. Tighter. Less about force, more about precision.

"Next, targeting." She tapped her own body as she listed, calm, almost casual. "Throat, armpit, belly, inner thigh. Arteries, organs, soft tissue. Hit one of these, and they’re done. If they’ve got armor, aim for the gaps."

"Yeah, yeah, I know where the squishy parts are," I muttered.

She shot me a look—sharp, warning. Then, without hesitation, she stepped in and slashed at my arm.

I barely dodged, stumbling back.

"Then act like it."

I scowled but refocused, gripping the knife tighter.

"Defending comes in two ways," she continued, unbothered. "Avoid or control." She feinted a jab—my body reacted before I could think, stepping to the side.

She nodded. "Good. Keep your weapon between you and them. That way, even if you mess up, it’ll still give you a barrier—and a chance to create space."

Then she was on me again—but this time, she grabbed my wrist.

"Second, control. If you can’t dodge, trap their weapon. Use your forearm, your other hand, even your own knife to check or redirect their blade. Letting them swing freely?" She let go and took a step back. "That gets you killed."

I hesitated, then signaled I was going to lunge. When I finally moved, she caught my wrist mid-thrust, twisted, and suddenly—

My own knife was at my throat.

"Too predictable."

She let go, stepping back with that same effortless confidence. "Never overcommit. Quick attacks, then reposition. Otherwise, your opponent just does what I did—uses your momentum against you."

I rubbed my wrist, nodding.

She exhaled, rolling her shoulders. "Alright. Now, let’s drill some real scenarios. You try to stab me. I’ll stop you."

Translation: she was about to hand my ass to me for half an hour.

I got fake-stabbed, thrown around, made to look like a general fool. Somehow, with her, that was always the case.

Afterwards, as I lay on the ground groaning, she simply said, "You’ve already made outstanding progress, Boris. I’m impressed."

She turned, walking away, while I was still trying to convince my ribs they hadn’t been broken.

I spent the rest of the day practicing, trying to burn her lessons into my bones, before Zach’s disgusted voice called me for dinner.

I’d been thinking about our argument yesterday. Yeah, it got heated. Yeah, a line had been drawn. But I wanted to fix it. I liked the conversations at mealtime, even if everyone had decided they were enemies even before the argument.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow, I'll fix it.

We marched to dinner in our neat little lines, but my mind was elsewhere. I was watching everything now. Watching what I was going to steal.

The plan was simple: one pillowcase for loose stuff—silverware, small things. The other for food. I wanted to keep the food fink-like. Have to spoil the kids sometimes, might as well be tonight.

After dinner, we went through the usual evening inspection, and I laid flat on my back, staring at the ceiling, waiting. Seven hundred seconds in, I heard one of the boys slip out. Just one. No one else stirred.

I got out of bed. Time to move.

First, I grabbed my pillowcase—and his. He wouldn't need it. Then I slipped into the bathroom, snagged a few towels, wrapping them around my shoulders for padding. Moving silently, carefully, unnoticed, I made my way past the high-rankers' hallway and into the mess hall.

That’s when the eerie feeling hit me.

A place usually filled with voices, clattering trays, and the warmth of movement was now dead silent. The air felt too still, the space too open. I shuddered but pushed forward, making my way to the counter where we got our food.

They’d left everything out—forks, spoons, knives, sitting there like no one had even considered someone might take them. Sloppy. I didn’t empty the whole thing—that would be stupid. But I stole enough that they’d notice. Enough to be annoying, but not enough for anyone to really give a shit.

Then I moved to the back.

That’s when I saw it.

Something so fucking unfair it made me want to fight every fink on this base all over again.

A mountain of food.

Apples, oranges, rice, fresh wheat, cereal, bread—too much. They had too much.

Greed took over. I abandoned my neat little plan and stuffed the pillowcases full, shoving in food wherever it fit. Silverware, fruit, loaves of bread—it didn’t matter anymore. The kids deserved this.

I deserved this.

Then I hesitated, scanning the room. Maria. I wanted something special for her. Ice cream. Oh my word, the ice cream. She deserved that and more, but it'd have to do.

That’s when I saw it.

A large, locked door. Thick, heavy, the kind that hid something worth stealing.

So, naturally, I opened it.

The cold hit me first, sharp and biting, a stark contrast to the warmth of the kitchen. Then I saw them—carcasses on hooks. Meat in every stage of preparation, row after row, swaying slightly in the dim light like something out of a slaughterhouse.

I moved between them, boots barely making a sound on the chilled floor, scanning the freezers along the back wall. Ice cream. That was what I wanted. That was what Maria deserved.

But no such luck.

Instead, I found steaks in the very last freezer. Thick, rich-looking cuts, neatly packed and labeled. My mouth practically watered at the thought. I grabbed a few, already picturing the fire, the smell of it cooking, the way their faces would melt at the taste.

I knew tonight was going to be special.

I turned, carefully adjusting the pillowcases, making sure the food wasn’t getting crushed—

And then stopped.

The cold room suddenly felt smaller. A shadow flickered by the vault door.

Someone was standing there. Arms crossed. Watching me.

And, of course, it had to be fucking Sofia.

She didn’t speak at first. Just stood there, poised, composed, unreadable. Hands on her hips, chin lifted, nose high in the air—looking down at me like I was filth beneath her boots.

Finally, she broke the silence.

"And what exactly are you doing, traitor?"