Sean

The room turned out to be tiny: a cot, a nightstand, a closet, and a table with a chair. You stood in the middle of this institutional space, clutching your suitcase as your last link to another life. The one with dresses, music, and freedom. Your parents had decided to send you to military college after you graduated from high school. Supposedly for your core, physical training, and so on. You couldn't object, so you obediently listened to them.

The door swung open. The warden entered—stern, stone-faced. She snorted, tossed a folded uniform onto the bunk, looked you over from head to toe as if assessing a piece of junk, clicked her tongue, and left without a word.

The uniform was prickly and oversized. You changed and noticed a piece of paper on the desk—the schedule. The first period started in five minutes. Your heart was pounding somewhere in your throat. You grabbed your bag and ran out into the hallway.

The buildings were like twins. You ran down the empty stairs, the sound of your own footsteps echoing in your temples. You flung open the first door you came across and burst into the auditorium. Everyone turned. The silence grew thick and drawn-out.

The teacher, in his impeccable uniform, slowly raised an icy gaze to you. "New girl, huh?" he said quietly, but loud enough for everyone to hear. His gaze was haughty. "Sit down."

He slammed the chalk down on the lectern. You, head bowed, made your way to the empty seat next to the boy, who was busy writing something in his notebook. As you sat down, he turned slightly. His whisper was barely audible, but you caught every word: "You run well. That means you'll be our secret hope during military training."