The alarm blared at 4:30 a.m.
Luna shot upright on the hard mattress, heart pounding, disoriented. The dorm's fluorescent lights flickered on, flooding the room in a harsh white glow. Around her, the other recruits moved with mechanical speed—snapping on boots, lacing uniforms, tying back hair. No one groaned. No one complained. They all moved like soldiers already trained to obey.
"Move, rookie," someone hissed at her, shoving her shoulder as they passed. Luna stumbled to her feet, grabbing the uniform she had folded neatly the night before. Her hands shook as she dressed, but she forced herself to keep up.
Minutes later, they were herded into the main hall. The warehouse looked different in the morning light, but not softer. It was alive with noise—gloved fists pounding punching bags, the metallic click of guns being assembled, instructors barking orders sharp enough to cut air.
The scar-faced woman from last night stood at the center, her presence a blade of its own.
"Welcome to the House of Shadows," she said, her voice calm, lethal. "This is where the world forgets you. Where you are broken down… and rebuilt into weapons. Out there, you were nothing. Here, you will learn to be something. If you survive."
Her gaze locked on Luna. For a heartbeat, it felt as if the entire warehouse had frozen, watching.
"Training starts now."
---
Luna's first task was simple—or so she thought. Run.
They were ordered onto the cracked asphalt outside the warehouse, lined up like soldiers. The instructor barked: "Ten miles. No breaks. Anyone who stops—gets left behind."
The recruits took off. Luna forced her legs to move, her lungs burning almost instantly. The others surged ahead, their strides sharp, relentless. Within minutes, sweat drenched her back, her legs screamed, and her chest felt like it would tear open.
I can't…
The words nearly slipped out, but then she remembered the scar-faced woman's smirk. Out there, you'll last a week. Maybe.
Her jaw clenched. No. I'll last longer than that.
She pushed forward, one step, then another.
By the time she stumbled across the finish line, she collapsed onto the ground, her vision swimming. But she had made it. Barely.
The scar-faced woman crouched down in front of her, unreadable. "You didn't quit." Her lips curved slightly—not quite a smile. "Maybe you'll last."
---
The rest of the day was worse.
Hand-to-hand combat left her bruised and gasping, every opponent faster, stronger, merciless. Weapons training had her hands raw and blistered from the recoil of guns she had never held before. By the time evening fell, Luna's body was a map of pain, her muscles trembling with exhaustion.
But it was the silence that broke her the most.
No one offered her a hand when she fell. No one spoke to her except to taunt. The recruits seemed to live in a world where trust didn't exist, only competition. They were not comrades. They were rivals.
That night, back in the dorm, Luna lay on her thin mattress, staring at the ceiling again. Every inch of her body screamed to give up. To surrender.
But she didn't.
Instead, she whispered into the darkness, to herself more than anyone else:
"I will survive this place. I don't care what it takes. I'll survive."
And for the first time since she had run away from home, she almost believed it.