The soldiers stood in two ranks at the edge of the training ground, helmets strapped tight, rifles slung. The course ahead was a monster—walls, rope climbs, mud pits, wire crawls, target lanes, and timed sprint sections. To make things worse, live-fire ranges were interspersed between obstacles. Speed alone wouldn’t cut it; accuracy mattered.

Colonel Briggs’ voice barked across the field. “Today’s exercise elevated course with integrated marksmanship. Every missed shot adds thirty seconds to your time. soldiers first, then the Fangs.”

A sergeant shoved rifles into the girls’ hands. Standard issue M4s, heavier and clunkier than their custom gear. Mei-Ling wrinkled her nose. “Feels like holding a broomstick with a trigger.”

Katya checked the iron sights with icy calm. “No scope. This will be… slow.”

“Adapt. That’s the point.” Trella grunted.

The soldiers charged in first. They weren’t bad—grunting, vaulting, squeezing off bursts at pop-up targets. A few missed shots, a couple sloppy reloads, one poor guy slipped off the rope wall and faceplanted into the mud, drawing chuckles from the stands. When it was over, the times were solid… but not spectacular. Then came the Fangs. Briggs lifted his hand. They moved like one organism. Aya smashed the rope climb, hauling herself over as if gravity were an optional setting. Mei-Ling flowed through the wires on her stomach, her rifle tucked neatly in front. Aiko cleared a ten-foot wall in a blur, vaulting like a cat.

At the first firing lane, the difference showed. The girls fumbled for half a heartbeat. Awkward grips, heavier recoil than they liked, but then muscle memory adapted. Katya and Liza snapped into rhythm, calling shots. The rest followed. Every target dropped. By lap three, they were flying. Mud spraying, boots hammering, each live-fire station reduced to a rhythm breath, squeeze, move. The soldiers on the sidelines stopped snickering.

The finish was brutal. Thirty meters of mud crawl under barbed wire, ending in a sprint and final target. The girls hit the ground, dirt smearing across faces and uniforms, rifles steady despite the filth. Pop-pop-pop—every target down. They crossed the line not just ahead of soldier best time, but obliterating it.

Briggs checked the stopwatch, then checked again. “Damn. Not bad.”

From the soldier ranks came a muttered groan. “…They’re not human.”

Trella turned just enough to flash that rare, sharp grin. “That’s the point.”

Then came hand-to-hand exercise. The training hall smelled of sweat, canvas mats, and antiseptic. A row of soldiers stood in fatigues, sleeves rolled up, cracking knuckles. Across from them, the Fangs stretched, rolled shoulders, and looked almost bored. Instructor Sgt. Davis barked. “Pairs! One Fang, one soldier. No weapons, no mercy. Show me control, not just brute force.”

The first rounds started simple. A soldier lunged at Aiko, and within two seconds he was flat on his back, staring at the ceiling, her knee pinning his chest. Aya caught another’s fist mid-swing, twisted, and sent him tumbling into a mat with a grunt. Anya moved like a whirlwind, soldier arms grabbed at her, only to be tangled and flipped. One after another, the thuds grew heavier. By the third round, the soldiers were sweating hard, grunting, straining. The Fangs? They were just warming up. Mei-Ling danced circles, landing quick strikes that disarmed and floored her opponent before he knew what happened. Amelie, on the other hand, bulldozed straight through hers. He actually tried to tap out halfway through, groaning. The instructor called a pause. Some soldiers staggered to the benches, clutching ribs and shoulders. A corpsman already had ice packs ready.

“Next set—sparring doubles. Two on two. soldiers, don’t hold back!”

That… didn’t go any better. The Fangs adapted seamlessly, covering each other, switching roles mid-flow. The soldiers fought hard, but they were fighting kids who’d grown up with combat as second nature. By the time the final whistle blew, half the soldier platoon had visited the infirmary. A couple sported black eyes, one had a sprained wrist, another a dislocated shoulder. Briggs, who had come to observe, finally folded his arms. His voice carried across the hall. “Lesson for today: stop underestimating them. Next session, I expect you soldiers to fight smarter. Dismissed.”

In the meantime Michelle was escorted to a lecture hall. A captain with salt-and-pepper hair and a chest full of ribbons tapped a pointer against a whiteboard. “Urban warfare is chess with blood. Streets funnel you. Corners kill you. Windows are sniper nests. Forget Hollywood—cities eat armies alive.” 

Michelle filled half a notebook before lunch. Her hand cramped, but she didn’t stop. Every case study soaked into her like water into dry ground. When Rivera noticed, he gave a curt nod. “Good. Keep learning like that, and you’ll make fewer mistakes than we did.”

Meanwhile, Talia was in tech heaven. A warrant officer led her through the camp’s drone bay and comms center, rattling off acronyms. She hardly heard him, she was too busy touching things. “Wait—this is the new micro-drone with IR overlay? Oh my god, you’re letting this just sit here? Can I—?”

“We usually don’t let visitors—”

“Relax, I won’t break it. Unless you want me to make it better.”

By the end of the hour, she had a list of improvements scribbled on scrap paper, and the officer looked both terrified and impressed.

At lunch, Michelle dropped her tray across from her and sighed. “My brain hurts.”

“Mine doesn’t. I need more. One day is criminally short.” Talia replied with excitement.

When they rejoined the others in the mess hall, they heard the whispers. soldiers rubbing bruises from the morning sparring, whispering about the demons with pigtails. Michelle caught the looks, then caught Trella’s calm, unreadable face. For once, Michelle understood these weren’t just girls. They were something the soldiers had no idea how to measure.

***

The house was eerily silent. No stomping boots on the stairs. No laughter bouncing through the halls. No smell of burned popcorn or Aya’s "mystery protein experiments" wafting from the kitchen. Just… quiet. Williams padded into the kitchen in sweatpants and a faded army t-shirt, flicked on the low light, and poured himself a cup of coffee. He leaned against the counter, staring into the black surface as though it might answer him.

Footsteps approached softly. Milena, hair tied back, a cardigan thrown over her nightgown, drifted in with her usual quiet grace. “Coffee at this hour? You’ll never sleep.”

“The house is too quiet. Sleep doesn’t feel right without the noise.”

She poured herself a cup of tea and sat across from him. For a moment, they just listened to the hum of the refrigerator.

“Michelle said she’s fine. But she always says that. I can’t shake the feeling she’s… out of her depth.”

“She is. But she’s learning. They won’t let her drown. Trella keeps her under her wing.”

“Trella told you that?”

“In her own way. She said they ‘humiliated them to the ground.’”

“That sounds like her.”

They shared a quiet laugh, then let the silence settle again.

And now Michelle is out there, learning things I never wanted her to see…”

Milena’s hand hovered for a moment before resting lightly on his. Warm, steady. 

“You gave her strength to survive. Now she’s choosing to step into this world. That’s… a different kind of strength.”

Williams met her eyes. The corners of his mouth lifted, not quite a smile, but close.

“You’re good at this. Talking sense.”

“Ten years of patching wounds and mixing serums. Someone had to be the quiet voice.”

For a while, neither moved. Just two tired souls sharing warmth in a house that—for once—was too still.

***

The soldiers stood in formation, geared up and buzzing with anticipation. Some were still stung by the humiliation of the week, others itching for payback. Across from them, the Fangs looked almost casual. Helmets clipped loose, rifles slung, chatting among themselves like it was just another day.

Colonel Briggs stood on the platform, hands clasped behind his back. “Today’s exercise will be a full-scale simulation. Soldiers versus… our guests. Rules are simple: neutralize the opposing force. No live ammo. Sim rounds only. Drones will be monitoring the field, and observers will record performance.”

He glanced upward. Michelle and Talia were already in the watchtower, headsets on, notebooks open. Michelle looked far more serious than usual. Talia adjusted her controls, her drones already buzzing in lazy circles overhead, her supervisor watching with raised brows at the sheer precision of her setup.

Briggs raised his voice. “Soldiers, this is your chance to redeem yourselves. Fangs, let’s see if you’re as good in open combat as you are in drills. Move out!”