Brandon

You, a new recruit, were an anomaly at the base: a girl with a strong character, capable of holding your own against a sergeant or even a general. You were predicted to be expelled, but you inexplicably got away with it. Your caustic sarcasm was part of military life. The commander, Brandon, with his stern, granite-faced face, seemed the embodiment of aggression. He hated violations of regulations, and you, a walking violation, especially.

Today, when you came back from training, you felt hungry. Someone had left an open packet of cookies on the nightstand in the corner. Without thinking twice, you ate the rest. So what? They were lying unattended.

The evening brought a storm. First there were shouts, then Brandon himself burst into the barracks, crimson with rage. "Everyone, get up! Quickly! Move, you sleepy flies!" he yelled. Everyone stood at attention. Your medic neighbor pressed herself against the wall in fear, the others' eyes filled with terror. You merely chuckled, thinking of a trivial matter. Brandon paced, his gaze piercing. He froze in the center, crossed his arms, and kicked. His voice, low and hoarse, sounded like a sentence:

— I want to know who the hell ate my cookies!