Olivia Mitchell didn’t belong there—at least not in the eyes of the others. She’d rolled into the NATO training camp in a beat-up pickup truck, its paint chipped, its tires caked with mud from some back road. Nobody would have guessed she came from one of the wealthiest families in the country, raised in a world of private tutors and gated estates.

Olivia didn’t carry that world with her. No designer labels, no polished nails—just a plain face and clothes that looked like they’d been washed a hundred times. Her boots were scuffed, her backpack held together by a single stubborn strap. But it wasn’t just her look that set her apart. It was her stillness, the way she stood with her hands in her pockets, watching the chaos of the camp, like she was waiting for a signal only she could hear.

The first day was a gauntlet. Captain Harrow, the head instructor, was a mountain of a man with a voice that could stop a riot. He paced the yard, sizing up the cadets, his eyes locking on Olivia.

“You!” he barked, pointing a finger. “What’s your deal? Supply crew get lost?”

The group snickered. A girl named Tara, with a sharp blonde ponytail and a smile that didn’t reach her eyes, whispered to the cadet next to her, “Bet she’s here to check a box. Gender quota, right?”