The enlistment paper was thinner than Ashen Cole expected.
One signature.
One stamp.
And his life was no longer his.
The recruiter smiled as the ink dried. "Congratulations, Cole. You're officially military property."
Property.
Ashen ignored the word. All he saw was escape—escape from hunger, from being invisible, from a future that had already given up on him.
Outside the recruitment office, Marcus Hale was waiting.
"You actually did it," Marcus said, grinning as he pulled Ashen into a rough hug. "Man, we're going to rise together. Same unit. Same glory."
Marcus had always been like that—confident, sharp-eyed, born to win. Standing next to him, Ashen felt like a shadow pretending to be solid.
"I don't need glory," Ashen replied. "Just a name that matters."
Marcus laughed. "In the military? That is glory."
Lena stood a few steps away, arms folded tightly around herself. When Ashen turned to her, she forced a smile that didn't reach her eyes.
"You'll come back different," she said quietly.
"Stronger," Ashen corrected.
She stepped forward and kissed him, brief and trembling. "Just… come back."
He promised he would.
That promise followed him all the way to hell.
Boot camp stripped Ashen down to bone and nerve.
He was slower. Weaker. Easier to break.
Instructors didn't hide their contempt. Recruits mocked him openly. Marcus rose fast—commended for leadership, praised for instinct. Lena's messages grew shorter, colder, until they stopped coming at all.
Ashen endured.
Pain was temporary. Purpose wasn't.
Then came the reassignment.
No explanation. No appeal.
Unit Seven.
A "special deployment force," they said. Classified. High risk. High honor.
The transport plane rattled as it cut through foreign airspace. Forty-eight recruits sat strapped in silence, gripping rifles they barely knew how to use.
Ashen scanned the faces.
Fear.
Excitement.
Denial.
"This isn't right," a soldier beside him muttered. "We're not ready."
Ashen didn't answer.
His instincts—quiet, usually useless—were screaming.
The rear ramp dropped.
Heat rushed in, carrying the smell of smoke and metal.
"Move! Move! Move!"
They hit the ground running.
The first explosion erased the front line in a flash of fire.
Screams followed.
Gunfire from rooftops. From alleys. From places Ashen couldn't even see.
"This is a trap!" someone shouted.
Command stayed silent.
Ashen dove behind a shattered wall as bullets chewed the concrete above his head. He fired blindly, hands shaking, heart hammering so hard it hurt.
One by one, voices on the comms went dead.
Forty-eight recruits.
Forty-seven fell.
Ashen didn't know how long he ran.
Minutes? Seconds?
A blast caught him mid-step and slammed him into the ground. His helmet cracked. His vision went white.
He tasted blood.
So this is it, he thought.
Then something else pushed back.
Not instinct.
Not fear.
Something cold.
Something precise.
[Neural Interface Detected]
[Unauthorized Activation in Progress]
Ashen gasped as pain lanced through his skull. It wasn't physical—it was invasive, like fingers peeling open his thoughts.
"No—stop—" he choked.
[Combat Synchronization Initializing…]
[Host Compatibility: CRITICAL]
The battlefield slowed.
Sound sharpened into layers. Bullet trajectories burned into his vision as glowing red lines. Enemy positions appeared in his mind with impossible clarity.
Ashen stood.
His hands were steady now.
He fired once.
An enemy sniper collapsed.
Twice.
Three times.
Bodies dropped.
Ashen moved without thinking, without hesitation. Every shot was lethal. Every decision optimal. Fear had nowhere to exist.
Minutes later, silence returned.
Smoke drifted across a field of corpses.
Ashen stood alone.
His rifle clicked empty.
His hands were shaking again—but not from fear.
From clarity.
The comms crackled.
"…Unit Seven, report. Any survivors?"
Ashen looked down at the bodies of boys who had trusted orders, trusted flags, trusted lies.
"Yes," he said calmly.
"I survived."
There was a pause.
Then a voice he recognized came through the static.
Marcus.
"Ashen?" Marcus sounded surprised. Relieved. "Good. Stay put. Command wants you retrieved."
Ashen closed his eyes.
Behind them, buried beneath layers of code and pain, something inside his mind stirred—awake, aware, and watching.
[Synchronization Halted at 3%]
[Host Survival Probability: 12%]
Ashen opened his eyes again.
And smiled for the first time since he enlisted.