Frank woke rested, though the heaviness of the mission sat like a stone in his chest. He rose before dawn, stretched the stiffness out of his shoulders, and laced up his boots. The barracks yard was cold and still, but he pushed through his routine anyway — sprints across the cracked concrete, push-ups until his chest burned, pull-ups until his arms shook.
Zoey wasn't far behind. She appeared in track pants, ponytail swaying, breath visible in the chill. Their eyes met briefly, no words needed, both of them locked into the rhythm of preparation.
After training, they showered, cleaned up, and Zoey's voice buzzed through Frank's phone.
"Mess hall. 7:30. Don't be late."
Frank smirked, lighting a cigarette before heading in.
At breakfast, they sat across from each other with steel trays — thick slices of bread smeared with butter and jam, a pair of boiled eggs, a cup of milk. Simple, bland. Frank chewed methodically, while Zoey studied him.
