Olivia didn’t blink. She looked at Harrow, her face calm, and said, “I’m a cadet, sir.”

Harrow snorted, waving her off. “Get in line, then. Don’t slow us down.”

During the first meal in the mess hall, Olivia carried her tray to a corner table away from the chatter. The room buzzed with the recruits swapping stories, their voices loud, their egos louder. A guy named Derek—lean and cocky with a buzzcut—spotted her sitting alone. He grabbed his tray, strutted over, and dropped it on her table with a clatter.

“Yo, lost girl,” he said loud enough for nearby tables to turn. “This ain’t a soup kitchen. You sure you’re not here to wash dishes?”

The group behind him erupted in laughter.

Olivia paused her fork halfway to her mouth and looked at him. “I’m eating,” she said, her voice steady.