Daylight crept into the cabin, cold and uninvited. It had been a lifetime since 005 had slept that deeply, but the reprieve was short lived. He stepped out of his tiny cabin, his breath hitching as he saw the stragglers his comrades still dragging their frozen bodies from the tree line. They looked like ghosts returning from a war. "Ahem." The Captain's voice sliced through the morning air. A cruel, familiar grin stretched across his face as he surveyed the survivors. "Seems like most of you survived," he mused. "Why don't I take care of that?" On his command, they were stripped. Naked but for their underwear, the cadets stood shivering as buckets of freezing lake water were dashed against their skin. It wasn't a bath; it was an assault. In the training grounds, bodies hit the dirt, cadets fainting from the thermal shock. No one moved to help them. Here, there were no humans only soulless vessels made to obey. "Let's start easy," the Captain barked. "We begin by breaking the flesh to find the steel." The routine became a blur of agony. 100 pushups. 100 sit-ups. 25 laps. All while drenched and freezing. By the twelfth lap of his sixth run, Five felt his head spin. He coughed, and the metallic tang of blood filled his mouth. His nostrils bled the only warmth his body felt was the steady drip of his own life onto the snow. A girl whizzed past him, her pace desperate, until BAM. She hit the ground flat. Blood gushed from her nose and mouth as her heart simply gave up. Five stared at her for a heartbeat before the reality settled in his gut: He was a tool. Disposable. Replaceable. If he wanted to live, he had to be more than a tool. He had to be a weapon. The days bled into weeks. The numbers grew: 200, 200, 50. Then 300, 300, 75. He watched the hundreds dwindle. By the time the real survival training began combat only seventy two cadets remained. The Commander was a titan of a man, sparing no one with his "lessons." They were taught the art of the fist, the knife, the kick. Anything visible was a potential instrument of death. One morning, a new alarm sounded. The air at the training ground felt different heavy. Eerie. "This will be a regular occurrence from now on," the Commander announced, his voice echoing. "Live combat to see how far you've crawled." He pointed to two cadets: 027 and 083. "You're our first subjects. The rest of you watch and learn." 083 drifted into a Tai Chi stance, eyes fluttering shut, taking deep, rhythmic breaths. 027 didn't wait. He grinned and dashed forward, launching a kick intended to shatter ribs. 083's eyes snapped open. She parried with a backhand, using his momentum to pivot into a counter strike. Fists and feet exchanged in a rhythmic, deadly dance. 083 feinted a high kick, dropped low, and slide tackled 027, pinning him to the frost. She looked to the Commander, seeking the signal to stop. "Bad idea," the Commander mouthed. In that split second of hesitation, 027 exploded. He flipped, legs wrapping around 083's thighs, and shoved her back. Before she could regain her balance CRACK. 027's foot connected with her temple. Her neck snapped like a dry twig. "Game over," the Commander yelled over the stunned silence. 083 lay deceased, a discarded doll in the dirt. "Get back to training!"
The message was clear: Mercy is a death sentence. 027 didn't celebrate; he was forced into his sets immediately, bleeding through 550 pushups and 175 laps. He died in his sleep that night from internal hemorrhaging. One year passed. An endless cycle of bone breaking labor. Five survived it all: broken limbs, a falling tree, a near miss lightning strike. He won seven battles and lost two. He was faster, leaner, and harder. But nothing prepared him for the day he lost his focus. A brawl broke out between two goons. Five made the mistake of looking. For a split second, his gaze met theirs, and he was pulled into the gravitational pull of their violence. His second mistake was turning his back. BAM. Everything went blurry. A bulky silhouette loomed over him. In the chaos, Five had collided with the Commander. "Follow me," the man grumbled, his hand like a vice around Five's arm. He dragged him to the center of the grounds and pounced. A flurry of punches rained down. Five's face swelled; blood masked his vision. Fear cold and paralyzing threatened to swallow him. His mind went blank, a white void of survival instinct. Then, the world glitched. The Commander's fist, mid swing, seemed to drag through water. Five could see the trajectory, the ripple in the air, the slight shift in the man's shoulder. Time didn't stop, but it stretched. Five moved. He used his elbow to deflect the slow motion punch and slid through the Commander's grasp. He was free. He knew he was no match for the Captain's sheer mass, but he was nimble. He was a ghost. The Commander charged again, his strikes growing sloppier with frustration. Five dodged, each movement a calculated risk. He ducked under a haymaker, slid between the man's legs, and spun upward. If he flinched now, he was dead. But Five was already steps ahead. He leaped, grabbing the Commander's hair to yank his head down, and drove his knee upward. THUD. The knee met the Commander's face. Five landed gracefully, creating distance. The Commander stood still. Blood flowed from a visibly broken nose. His anger didn't explode; it vanished, replaced by a terrifying, cold curiosity. "Cadet. Identify yourself." "Five." "At ease, Cadet. Everyone else dismissed. Five, meet me in my cabin. I have a special lesson for you." Later, in the shadows of the bunker, the Commander looked at him over a map. "Five, huh? You're the first cadet to make me bleed. You've got potential. Moving forward, ill be taking you under my wing.