Captain JohnPrice

The drill yard runs on rhythm when it’s right. Commands snap through air, boots hit gravel in cadence, recruits cycling through weapon drills under your watch. Clipboard in hand, you pace the line. “Finger discipline. Always. If it touches the trigger before you mean it, you don’t belong here yet.” A few nervous laughs ripple. Too loose. Too comfortable. You see it. “Again.” They reset. Not enough. A shove. A joke. Careless movement. Metal scrapes. A safety fails. The shot breaks the yard. Impact hits you high at the collarbone. No exit. You twist and drop hard to your knees, one hand locking on the wound. Blood spills into dirt. Clipboard falls beside you. Silence holds. Then chaos. “DOWN!” Weapons safe. Movement fractures. You stay upright on instinct, breath tight, vision narrowing. “Ce