Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Nikolai trailed slowly behind the rest of his platoon with his shoulders slumped, the weight of defeat sinking him further into the ground with every step he took. He kept his gaze low, his boots scuffing the ground. He could feel his anger clawing its way up. Hot, sharp. It burned in his chest, in the back of his throat, acid rising, biting. 

God.

He felt sick.

In his two months at the Vanguard School, he had never lost a single war game. Not one. Not even close.

But today?

His fist clenched at the thought.

As Nikolai approached the exit of the war room into the corridor, his heart sank.

They were already there. The victorious platoon from Hermes Army, lined up, standing at attention, every posture perfect, every smug expression in place. And there, at the forefront, was Florence. Captain of the third platoon. Smirking. That cocky, lopsided grin plastered across his face like he owned the world. He hated that prick. Nikolai wished he could punch it right off his face. 

Instead, Nikolai gritted his teeth and forced himself to fall in line beside his platoon mates. With a sharp exhale, he clasped his hands behind his back and stood at attention as Captain Gunther approached. At twenty-three, Gunther was the youngest in Vanguard’s history to earn the rank of captain—and two years in, he remained undefeated in scrimmages.

Until now.

Nikolai swallowed nervously.

Captain Gunther strode toward the opposing platoon, his presence commanding the attention of everyone in the corridor. Even Florence's cocky smirk subsided when Captain Gunther's cold gaze swept over the assembled soldiers of Hermes and his own, while lingering on Nikolai for a tad longer than necessary. Nikolai didn't like that one bit.

Without a word, the captain stopped in front of Florence. He extended his hand, a silent acknowledgment of the victor’s achievement, as tradition demanded. Florence hesitated for a moment, his eyes flickering with a mixture of pride and apprehension before reaching out to grasp Captain Gunther's hand in a firm shake. The exchange was brief, but to Nikolai, it felt like an eternity. 

Once the handshake concluded, Florence and his platoon filed out of the corridor of the war room. Gunther turned back to his own soldier, his gaze sweeping over them again before landing on Nikolai, but this time, it stayed.

Nikolai shifted uncomfortably, his shoulders tense, his eyes dropping to the floor as that cold stare bore into him. Gunther didn’t say a word. He let that silence dragged out until Nikolai's felt like his heart was running right out his ribcage. Then, finally, the captain moved. He paced back and forth, his footsteps steady like the ticking of a clock. Each step wound the tension tighter, pressing against Nikolai's chest until finally—

Captain Gunther stopped.

Right in front of him.

"Nikolai, what went wrong out there?" he asked, his tone clipped.

Nikolai clenched his jaw, desperately searching for the right words. His mind raced through every single possible explanation, but before he could speak, Captain Gunther shifted his attention to Dax.

"Dax," Captain Gunther said, his tone sharp. "Tell me, what went wrong out there?"

"Disobeying orders, sir," Dax replied without missing a beat.

Realization dawned on Nikolai, and he quietly groaned in frustration. This wasn't about losing, Nikolai realized. This was about what he didn't do during the war game.

"Correct," Gunther affirmed, resuming his pacing. "What were my commands, Nikolai?"

This time, Nikolai didn't hesitate to answer.

"Your commands were to stand down while the enemy was approaching the east side of the map, sir."

"Hm," Gunther responded, now fully standing in front of Nikolai, his eyes cutting right through him. "And did you?"

"No, I didn't—," Nikolai stuttered, "—because I thought that your command to stand down was uncalled for considering the situation we were in, and so I thought that—"

Before he could finish, the captain’s hand shot out and struck him across the face with a resounding crack that echoed off the walls of the corridor. The rest of the platoon flinched but kept their gazes fixed ahead.

The blow snapped his head to the side, his body stumbling a step back. His cheek burned hot, and for a split second, a stupid, dangerous thought swept right through him—and just as quickly, he shut it down, locked his jaw, hands clasped behind him, and stepped back into formation as the heat settled behind his eyes.

"You do not think. You obey," Captain Gunther said pointedly.

Nikolai didn't react. Honestly, he didn't even hear anything Gunther said after because all he could focus on was the humiliation burning across his cheek. His fists tightened, and the thought of taking a swing at his captain crossed his mind monetarily. But just as his eyes met the fury lurking in Captain Gunther’s cold, dark stare, Nikolai’s resolve crumbled.

He’d never seen Gunther like this. 

If whatever this was could even be called anger. Because anger, at least from far crueler captains and commanders Nikolai had seen, came with clenched fists and boots slammed into ribs. Punishments meant to break them down and mold them into fearless soldiers for the Republic. It wasn’t personal. Or so he’d been told. It was just how the Republic made soldiers.

But this time, it felt personal.

Not in the way others had sought to hurt him when they learned of his past, not with the sneers or the cheap shots meant to humiliate. No. This was different. Like the captain wasn't trying to punish him for who he was, but because he was genuinely pissed at what Nikolai had done—like he’d crossed a line he hadn’t even realized was there until the second he said the captain was wrong in front of everyone. Undeservingly, maybe. Because as much as he’d hate to admit it, the captain was right. Nikolai knew better than to question a direct order—especially not in the middle of a scrimmage, and especially not in front of the entire platoon.

"You think, Nikolai, that your reckless disregard for orders will go unnoticed?" Captain Gunther continued. "You think that what you decide matters in the chain of command? Well, let me tell you what you should know, that such actions will not be tolerated, under any circumstances. If I tell you to jump, you jump. If I tell you to roll over, you do what?"

"Roll over, sir!" the platoon shouted in unison. 

Except for Nikolai.

His mouth had gone dry, his voice caught somewhere between pride and shame. A beat passed. And then another.

Gunther turned his head slightly, gaze narrowing.

“I said,” he repeated, slower this time, “if I tell you to roll over, you do what?”

Nikolai knew this was a battle he'd never win, and yet, something in him still resisted. Some stubborn shard of pride lodged deep in his chest that refused to break clean.

He gritted his teeth.

“Roll over, sir,” he muttered, barely audible.

Too quiet.

Gunther took a single step closer. “Louder.”

Nikolai lifted his chin, forcing the words out.

“Roll over, sir!”

The reply came too late.

The damage was done.

Another long pause.

Then Gunther looked away, the tension stretching thin as he resumed pacing. “There is no room for ego in the field. When you disobeyed a direct command in front of your unit and risked the operation by undermining the directives—and the moment that happens, we lose. Me, you…” his eyes found Nikolai’s again before sweeping through the others. “... everyone.”

Gunther took a deep breath. And Nikolai could tell that he wasn’t talking about him anymore because the captain’s voice shifted to something more somber, broad, like he was no longer speaking to just Nikolai, but to the entire unit.

“You all know that there’s no team without trust. And war has always been built on trust. We all know that—that faith in the person next to you determines whether or not you’d make it through the next day, that your trust in their judgment, in their ability to make the right call, is the difference between coming home and being carried home.”

Nikolai winced. He didn’t think what he did was such a big deal. After all, that’s what scrimmages were for, right? To experiment and try out unique tactics under pressure that they couldn’t otherwise do without risking actual lives. Nikolai did that, experimented. Perhaps he should’ve spent more time thinking about other potential scenarios, but could anyone really blame him for going out the way to try something in hopes it’d secure them a faster victory?

Gunther continued, his brown eyes darkening under the hood of his eyes. “And so when you act alone without letting your unit know what you’re doing—you’re not just risking the mission and their life and yours, but you’re telling them their judgment doesn’t matter. You’re telling them that their planning, their training, their faith in you was misplaced. And here, in our platoon, trust goes both ways.”

Gunther’s gaze swept the group one last time. “We work together. Or we don’t work at all.”

Then, quieter, “Understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

Every voice answered and, somewhere in the middle of it all, Nikolai found his own rising with the others. He wasn’t even sure if Gunther heard his voice in particular and felt stupid stealing a glance at the man to see if he did.

But the captain didn’t look his way and Nikolai would be lying if he said he wasn’t disappointed.

The moment passed and finally, the captain turned on his heel and signaled for the platoon to follow him back to the barracks. As they walked, Nikolai fell into step behind his comrades, the sting on his cheek already subsiding, but the shame of it all still burned in his chest. 

He wasn’t sure why. 

Maybe it was something Gunther had said that was able to reach past his pride and stirred that small, bitter seed of disappointment he didn’t realize he had until it took root right beneath shame and resentment.

He knew what was expected of him. That obedience was everything here and always had been. And that, yes, he shouldn't have disrespected the captain in front of everyone. But still, a part of him still believed he’d made the right call. 

Well, not entirely. 

During the war game, Captain Gunther commanded them to wait for Hermes to ambush them. A sound strategy—if Captain Gunther had known for certain that Hermes would execute such a tactic. But they didn’t. They never had. The entire war game, Hermes hadn’t shown any inclination to ambush. Why would they start now? The command was ridiculous, Nikolai told himself. So he’d taken the liberty to break formation, and tried to outflank Hermes on his own. A bold move. A mistake. Because, of course, Hermes had someone posted to guard their flank.

It was definitely a rookie oversight on Nikolai’s part—that, he would admit to because he should have accounted for the possibility. Instead, his plan had backfired spectacularly, costing them the game.

Once they reached the noisy barracks, Captain Gunther dismissed them before disappearing down the hallway towards Commander Dallas's quarter.

As everyone began to disperse, each of his teammates headed to their respective bunks. The familiar routine of their daily activities was already in motion as Nikolai stood there watching them grab their evening uniforms and personal belongings before heading to the communal showers.

Except for Nikolai, who walked back to his own bunk and instantly collapsed onto his bed, with his face buried in his pillow. The top bunk above him creaked loudly until Afton, a curly-haired brunette swung down with his annoying exuberance. Nikolai let out a groan, already bracing himself for whatever relentless commentary was about to come.

"Hey there, sunshine," Afton chirped. "What's got you all down and under? Get it—all down and under, since you're—" He waved at his top bunk, then at Nikolai’s bottom bunk, grinning at his own joke.

Nikolai didn’t laugh. Just turned his head around to looked at him and grunted.

Afton’s smile faded when he caught sight of the dried blood on Nikolai’s lip. “Hey, what happened to your lip? You alright?”

Nikolai blinked, then raised his fingers to his mouth. His fingertips brushed the split at the corner of his lip—he hadn’t even realized it was there. A smear of red came away on his hand.

He stared at it for a second before wiping it off with the back of his palm.

“Fuck, Afton,” he muttered, turning his head toward the wall. “Mind your goddamn business.”

"Alright, alright, no need to bite my head off," Afton said with a huff. "You’re in a mood, huh? I take it that the scrimmage didn’t go too hot?"

Nikolai didn’t answer.

So Afton kept talking anyway.

"I suppose not, since it doesn’t take a genius to see that everyone in your platoon looked like crap when they walked in. Hey, it’s okay to lose once in a while, like the rest of us peasants. Sometimes you just have to take it on the chin and keep going, you know?"

Nikolai didn’t dignify that with a response. He didn’t need pep talks. 

He has never found comfort in losing, no matter how well it was rationalized. Only in winning did it feel right—that his life meant something. And when he didn’t? He'd curled inward and stewed in it. Afton had learned that by now. He knew how Nikolai got—all quiet and mean until he decided to climb out of it on his own. It always passed eventually. Usually in a day. Sometimes two. But this? Nikolai wasn't quite sure. 

But before Afton could bestow more unsolicited, age-old wisdom upon Nikolai, he heard heavy footsteps approaching from behind.

"Oh—hey, Captain Gunther," Afton called out.

At the sound of his name, Nikolai stiffened, his breath hitched. He didn’t move. Instead, he kept his back turned, face still buried in the pillow, pretending not to notice anything at all.

"Nikolai, with me," Captain Gunther ordered.

Nikolai didn't move at first. The defiance rising in his chest for just a moment before he stood, slowly. Annoyed. He glanced at Afton, who shrugged in response, his expression somewhere between amused and confused. Then Nikolai looked back at Gunther, who had already turned and was walking toward the barracks door without waiting for him. Finally, Nikolai forced himself to move, his boots hitting the floor harder than he meant as he trailed after Gunther. 

Once he caught up to the captain, they walked in silence until they reached his room.

Once they entered the room, Gunther turned and locked the door behind him. The click of the lock made Nikolai feel uneasy, but he quickly shook off the feeling as his anger from earlier began to resurface. Standing at attention, he looked around the room and noticed how sparse it was. Bare walls. A bed, a closet, a wooden desk, and a single chair. Nothing else. Minimal. Functional. Sterile. Yet, compared to the barracks, it might as well have been luxury. Their "tables" were flimsy trays bolted to the wall, barely enough space for their assignments. And Gunther? He had this. 

"Sir, may I ask why we're here?" Nikolai asked impatiently, already over this charade.

He met Gunther's gaze head-on, jaw tight, eyes still burning from the humiliation he hadn’t quite managed to swallow. He wasn’t thinking about consequences, not really, if at all. Just that fire in his chest that hadn’t gone out. The way his fists twitched at his sides. The way silence stretched too long. He didn’t mean to bait the captain—but if Gunther saw defiance in his posture, heard it in his tone, saw it in his eyes, Nikolai wasn’t about to correct him.

"Nikolai," Gunther said, his tone measured, "I spoke with Commander Dallas earlier and gave him an update on your progress since you arrived. He mentioned your time at the academy." He paused, watching Nikolai carefully. “I get that this place isn’t like what you’re used to. Orders here are strict. They’re absolute. Structure is non-negotiable. I don’t expect perfection—I’m not unreasonable, but I do expect effort and obedience. And right now, I need to know if you’re capable of adjusting to that.”

Nikolai rolled his eyes.

Gunther went still. 

His jaw tightened, a flicker of something Nikolai couldn't quite pinpoint flashed in his eyes. 

Suddenly, the air grew colder.

"Hmm," the captain said, rising from his chair. His expression hardened. Decided. "I suppose that's enough talking."

He gave nothing away as he walked toward Nikolai, his frame towering a full foot over him. Nikolai didn’t flinch, holding his ground, even as his legs tensed. The captain returned the chair to its place beneath the desk, the scrape of wood loud against floorboards.

Nikolai eyed him warily.

"Go to the desk and bend over," Gunther said flatly, giving Nikolai a firm nudge as he turned toward the closet.

Nikolai unconsciously took a step back, glancing over his shoulder just in time to see the captain pull open the door and retrieve a thick, worn leather belt. The buckle clinked as Gunther folded it in half, then turned back around. The situation quickly dawned on Nikolai as he took another step back, hitting the edge of the desk with a jolt. His breath caught. His fingers curled instinctively against the wood behind him. Whatever heat that had fueled his defiance earlier was gone—completely drained out and replaced by cold dread slithering down his spine.

"Did you not hear me? I said to bend over the desk," Captain Gunther said. "Now, Nikolai."

Nikolai didn’t move.

For a second, he just stared at the captain—at the belt looped in his hand, the calm certainty in his voice.

“Sir—” he started, voice thinner than he meant.

Gunther raised an eyebrow. Just one. “You heard me.”

Nikolai stiffened. “Sir, wait—this isn’t—” He tried to force out the words, tried to stand tall, but his voice cracked halfway through despite it all. “I get it, alright? I messed up, but this? Isn’t this a bit much?”

Gunther levelled him with a cold stare. “You disobeyed a direct order. You questioned your commanding officer in front of your entire platoon. Even now, as I am trying to speak to you, you blatantly disrespected me by rolling your eyes. Tell me—how would you handle that if the roles were reversed?”

Nikolai opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

It wouldn’t be the first time someone had taken a belt to him. Not by a long shot. Back at the academy, discipline came in many shapes and sizes but most of the time, it was doled out in the shape of a long, thin rod that whistled when swung across palms, thighs, backside, or lower back, depending on the offense and the mood of the wielder. Punishments then were handed out like rations—erratic, frequent, and always public. He’d been punished for worse. He’d been punished for far less. 

He just didn’t expect it from Captain Gunther. 

Even after all the grief he’d given the man over the past few weeks—smart remarks that bordered on insubordination—Gunther hadn’t once laid a hand on him. No. He preferred his punishments methodical: laps until his legs gave out, cleaning everyone’s locker with a toothbrush until every single bone in his body ached, latrine duty. They were tedious, but never physical. 

And maybe Nikolai shouldn’t have been surprised. Afterall, he’d heard the rumors. Dax once mentioned Gunther dragging a cadet into his quarters after they’d shown up late to a scrimmage. The guy couldn’t sit right for days. Still, Nikolai didn’t think much of it. But now, staring down at the belt in Gunther’s hand, he just never thought he’d be at the receiving end of it.

“I didn’t mean to disobey your order, sir—I just thought that…” Nikolai’s voice trailed off, the end catching dead in his throat. He wasn’t sure if he should keep going. If there was one thing he learned from the slap earlier, it was this—when Captain Gunther didn’t ask for your opinion, he sure as hell didn’t want to hear it.

So he shut his mouth and instead said, carefully, “If I were the commanding officer, I’d make sure to remind the soldier of the chain of command.”

Gunther nodded. “And what does that chain of command entail?”

Nikolai clenched his teeth. He knew where this was heading. He knew what the captain wanted to spell out for him. But it didn’t matter—reason had all but left the room the second Gunther reached for the belt. And now? He obviously just wanted to hear Nikolai say it. And Nikolai wasn’t sure if he could trust himself to say it—what Gunther wanted to hear. Because sure, he could say it. That soldier's main priority has always and will be to follow orders at all time. But he didn't want to give Gunther the satisfaction of seeing him fall in line that easily.

He hated that part the most.

And yet, self-preservation came at the worst time and Nikolai forced the words out anyway, “It entails being respectful and following orders at all times, sir.”

“Correct. What about eyerolls?” Gunther said as he crossed his arms. “Are they respectful?”

“No, sir.”

“Are you certain?”

Nikolai’s throat tightened. “Yes, sir.”

“And what about following orders, does the chain of command require following orders the second time?”

Nikolai's jaw twitched. “No, sir.”

“The first time?”

Nikolai hesitated. A bitter swallow. “Yes, sir.”

“Good. Then maybe it’ll stick better this time,” Gunther took a step back and gestured to the desk. “Over. Now.”

Nikolai stared at the captain, clenching and unclenching his fists at his sides. Then, with a deep breath, he turned toward the desk and bent forward.

Chapter Text

Each strike of Captain Gunther's belt landed with a sharp crack against Nikolai's backside and thighs. The thin fabric of Nikolai’s pants did little to shield him, each lash searing through his skin, lighting his nerves on fire. Nikolai bit down hard on his lips to stifle his cries, while pain seared through him, consuming him, until it was all he could feel, all he could hear. Nothing, but the crack of the belt reverberating off the walls of the small room. With each stroke, Nikolai’s instinct screamed at him to move, to reach back, to stop the onslaught, to shove Gunther away, to fight. But he didn't. His pride, his ego—they kept him there. 

Captain Gunther’s strokes came hard and quick. Nikolai fought to hold it in—to bite back the sounds, to keep it at bay. But the pain broke through, and a choked noise escaped with every crack of leather. Still, he refused to show any emotion, clinging to whatever dignity he had left.

“I believe it’s admirable,” Gunther said, between each stroke, his voice annoyingly calm, “that you took the initiative to consider an alternative strategy during the scrimmage.”

Nikolai’s hands curled around the edge of the desk, gritting his teeth, wondering if the captain was seriously lecturing him in the middle of this.

Another stroke.

He flinched and got back into position.

“However, there’s a time and place for independent thinking,” Gunther continued, folding the belt again in his hand. “And two conditions that must always be met.”

A pause. 

Nikolai braced himself.

Crack.

The next one caused him to buckle his hips into the desk, ripping his breath away. 

“First, you communicate,” Gunther said methodically. “With your unit, and with me. Especially with me. If you disagree with an order, you bring it up through the proper channels. You don’t go rogue and leave the rest of us guessing.”

Nikolai knew that. Of course he did. But he didn’t feel like he had enough time to communicate it—not with the way the scrimmage was going, especially not with how fast Hermes was pressing in from the east. He thought… No. He was sure that there wouldn’t be a second chance if he hesitated, so he did it. 

But now, he knew that he was wrong. 

There had been time because Hermes hadn’t ambushed.

The opportunity had been a trap and now here he was, bent over a desk with a belt making sure he paid for a decision he made in the span of a second. 

“Strategy,” the captain continued, “only works when it’s coordinated. Without that, it’s called insubordination.”

Nikolai let out a quiet grunt. The belt snapped across the edge of his thighs and white-hot pain swept through him as his knuckles clenched so hard it went numb. 

“Second, a good strategy considers more than just what’s in front of you. It accounts for what you don’t see. You acted on assumption, not intel. And I know you're clever enough to know that assumption gets people killed.” 

Another strike landed—lower this time. Nikolai’s breath hitched, his face twisting against the desk’s surface as the sting dug deep into his muscle.

It was true. He acted on an assumption. 

He hadn’t waited, hadn’t asked, hadn’t thought beyond the tunnel of adrenaline rampaging through his body to prove himself. Fuck. He was such an idiot. He knew better than to assume, why did he do that?

“Third,” Gunther counted as Nikolai tensed in anticipation. “When I asked you what happened, I expected you to take full responsibility. Not excuses. Not half-answers. That’s what I expect from every single person under my command.”

He paused.

“Does that sound fair to you?”

Nikolai didn’t answer right away. His jaw was locked tight, and his throat burned from all the effort it took not to make a sound—he wasn’t sure anything would come out even if he tried to speak.

But that wasn’t acceptable. He knew better now.

So he forced the words out, hoarse and raw, “… Yes, sir. It’s fair.” 

“Good,” Gunther replied, clipped and certain. “Then we understand each other, because now, this last part here is not for the scrimmage.”

Nikolai stiffened.

“This last part is for the disrespect and disobeying me a second time when I had to ask you twice to bend over,” Gunther said, voice firm. “With that said, I need you to bare yourself. You don’t get to disrespect me and disobey me twice and believe that there’s no consequences for you to answer to.”

Nikolai’s throat tightened. For a second, he didn’t move. 

Then, slowly, he stood up and with fingers that didn’t feel quite like his, he reached for his belt and unbuckled it.

And then his hands moved to his waistband, pushing it down until the fabric slid painfully against his ass and gathered at his knees. Shame burned through him in waves as he slowly draped himself back over the desk. This was humiliating. Beyond humiliating. But that was the point, wasn’t it? So he’d think twice before he’d ever think to disrespect and disobey the captain ever again.

Behind him, he heard Gunther shuffling around until the floorboards creaked closer and a hand settled between his shoulder blades.

Nikolai tensed. He wondered if the hand was meant to comfort him or pin him in place. He wasn’t sure. Either way, he didn’t want to find out—and he’d certainly be lying if he said he didn’t regret it all.

If only he shut his mouth and... and just redid everything. Like accepted responsibility for what he did, take better control of his emotions and reactions, and do what was asked of him the first time.

All of it.

But no.

He didn’t do that.

But Gunther would make sure he would.

And so he did.

He brought the belt down in rapid succession across only his thighs and Nikolai cried out a guttural sound that tore through his throat before he could shove it down. His vision quickly blurred as tears welled up. He blinked hard, trying to hold himself together, trying not to let it spill over—because he’d die before he was reduced to a crying child. But the burn wouldn’t stop and neither would the shame. 

And before his mind could catch up, Nikolai tried to squirm away from the belt but Gunther was stronger and held him there, pressing him back down, making sure Nikolai felt each and every stroke.

“Captain—I,” Nikolai gasped, struggling to breath through the onslaught, “I’m sorry… I am.”

“That you are,” Gunther said without letting up.

And when Nikolai thought he couldn’t handle anymore, it stopped.

No final stroke, nothing. Just the sudden absence of pain so jarring it left him disoriented. His breath came in ragged bursts, his chest heaving against the desk, his legs trembling beneath him. Nikolai didn’t move. At least, not without being told. Because a part of him half-expected another one for the way he’d tried to pull away like it was back in the academy. But it never came. 

Instead, Gunther patted him on the back and said, “You may get up.”

Ironically, Nikolai wasn’t sure if he wanted to stand up and face his captain. Especially not with the tears he hadn’t even realized he’d shed. Quickly, he wiped at his face with the back of his hand before he eventually stood up on unsteady legs, spine stiffening the moment he was upright. Carefully, he reached down and tugged his pants back up, the rough fabric scraping over raw, welted skin. It hurted. But he forced himself not to flinch. He didn’t want to show any more weakness than he already has.

Then, he tucked in his shirt, buttoned his pants, and buckled his belt back into place.

Only once his uniform was back in place did he turned around, straighten up, hands falling to his sides as he stood at attention. Or close enough. His posture wasn’t perfect, but it was the best he could manage.

"Eyes up here, Nikolai."

Reluctantly, he raised his gaze. 

Gunther stood a pace away, his arms crossed loosely over his chest, not a trace of anger on his face. None of that smugness and sick satisfaction that always clung to the instructors back at the academy when they punished him. Those men had relished in making him hurt. Not Gunther. There was no cruelty there.

“Going forward, when I give you an order,” Gunther said, breaking the silence, his tone leaving no room for misinterpretation, “you obey immediately. If I say stand down, you stand down. If I tell you to bend over, you bend over. Understood?”

Nikolai nodded but stopped himself. “Understood, sir.”

“Any questions?”

“No, sir.”

Captain Gunther regarded Nikolai for a moment before he gave a curt nod. "You're dismissed."

Nikolai gave one final nod, turned on his heel, and walked to the door, unlocked it, and let himself out. The ache in his body intensified with every step. By the time he reached the corridor leading to Poseidon’s barracks, his breaths came shallow, his pace slower than he intended. He paused briefly to take a deep breath before steeling himself to conceal any sign of discomfort before making his way to the washroom. His eyes to the floor, he tried to avoid the gazes of the few soldiers who passed by, lest they see his face. 

The washroom was empty, a small mercy. Relief washed over him. Most of his fellow cadets were already in the mess hall for dinner, except for a couple stragglers who stayed behind in the barracks, leaving him alone in the dimly lit bathroom. He made his way to the row of sinks, his footsteps echoing softly against the tiled floor

He approached the sink, gripping the edges tightly as he leaned forward, his reflection staring back at him from the mirror. Nikolai winced. He looked like hell. 

He brought his fist down hard, the impact reverberating through the sink—a sharp, fleeting pain that vanished into the constant thrum of agony coursing through his body. Unable to bear the sight of himself any longer, Nikolai looked away and turned on the faucet, the rush of water filling the room. He cupped his hands beneath it and scrubbed at his cheeks, trying to wash away the evidence of his tears that felt like a permanent fixture on his face.

“You know, that’s not going to fix the mess on your face.”

Nikolai jerked upright, startled, almost slipping on the wet tiles. He turned around to see Afton leaning casually against the doorframe, a sly smirk playing on his lips.

Nikolai glared at him. His initial reaction was to tell Afton to fuck off, but he was too tired to bother. Instead, he turned back to the sink and resumed splashing cold water on his face.

"I didn't hear you come in," Nikolai muttered eventually, his voice strained.

Afton chuckled, pushing himself off the doorframe and sauntering over to the sink next to Nikolai. "I'm good at being stealthy when I want to be," he remarked, reaching to turn on the faucet to wash his hands. "But let's not focus on my amazing talents. Let's talk about you. You look like, forgive me, complete shit."

Nikolai's jaw tightened at the concern in Afton's voice, but he couldn't bring himself to open up about what had happened. "I'm fine," he said flatly, avoiding Afton's gaze.

Afton raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. "Sure." He turned off the faucet, grabbing a towel off one of the racks on the wall. "And I'm Commander Dallas."

Nikolai rolled his eyes.

"Look, you don't have to talk about it." Afton said, drying his hands with the towel. "But if you need anything, you know where to find me. And besides, let's go get some dinner. You look like you could use some good chow.”

"I..." Nikolai began, his voice faltering as he hesitated to accept Afton's offer.

But Afton noticed Nikolai's hesitation and the subtle grimace of pain that crossed his features. Without missing a beat, he adjusted his offer. "Tell you what," he said, tossing the towel into one of the bins near the door. "I'll bring the food to you instead. You can eat in your bunk. The only thing is, I can't guarantee if it's anything good. You know how it is, early bird gets the worm, and let's be real, there's probably not much left at—" he checked his watch "—this time."

Nikolai glanced up, surprised by Afton's consideration. Despite his reluctance to accept help, the thought of any meal without the discomfort of the metal chairs inside the mess hall was tempting. He nodded slowly, a small flicker of gratitude warming his chest.

"Thanks, Afton," he murmured, the words feeling foreign on his tongue.

Afton flashed him a reassuring smile. "No problem, sunshine. I'll be back in a bit with something tasty," he said, patting Nikolai lightly on the shoulder before heading out of the bathroom.

As the door swung shut behind Afton, Nikolai stared at his reflection again. The face looking back at him was bruised, battered, and utterly spent. And yet, somewhere in the back of his mind, Afton’s offer lingered and Nikolai couldn't help but smile.

Chapter Text

Nikolai sat on his bed with his back half-leaning against the wall, a pillow propped up behind him in an attempt to find some comfort. It felt like no matter what position he was in, everything hurt. So instead, he settled for a half-sitting position, trying to ease the ache in his body to no avail. At this point, he should've been used to it by now. The pain, the hurt, each one a thread woven into the fabric of his miserable existence. He sighed as he closed his eyes and threw his head back. Actually, that wasn't always true. Yes, there had been a time when things were better. A time when he felt safe in the arms of his mother, before the world lit its match and set it all to ashes.

He clenched his teeth. Actually, that was not quite true either. It wasn’t the world that took his mother from him. It was his brother. It was Mikhael, who took everything from him.

As his memories tried to claw its way out of the hole he dug for them, Nikolai drew his legs up to his chest, a lump already forming in his throat as he curled into himself with his arms wrapped tightly around his knees, his face buried into the crook of his arms.

“Not right now, please,” he whispered to himself, his eyes squeezed tight.

He could almost hear the echoes of his mother's laughter, the warmth of her embrace, and the pricks of his father’s beard against his forehead whenever his father kissed him before bed.

Suddenly, before Nikolai could descend further into the depths of his own despair, a gentle hand on his head pulled him back from the brink of his free fall. Startled, he lifted his head from his arms to find Afton sitting beside him, his expression soft, concerned.

"Hey there, sunshine," Afton greeted. "Are you planning on turning into a pretzel any time soon?"

Startled, Nikolai pushed Afton’s hand from his head and looked up at him confused.

“What?”

Afton pointed at Nikolai’s arms.

“Yeah, your arms,” Afton said as he pointed at Nikolai’s arms for further emphasis. “I heard from my nana that the longer your arms are crossed, the more crooked they become!”

Afton proceeded to fold his arms in front of him to demonstrate. “See? Like a pretzel.”

Nikolai stared blankly at Afton for a moment, before bursting into laughter, the sound bouncing off the walls of the almost empty barracks.

Nikolai wiped a tear from his eye, still chuckling.

"I think your nana might be onto something," he admitted, unfolding his arms and stretching them out in front of him as if to inspect them for crookedness.

Afton grinned.

“See, Nikolai, I’m not just a pretty face,” Afton said with a winked. “I've got a wealth of knowledge passed down through the generations.”

Nikolai rolled his eyes. “Yeah, yeah. Whatever you say, Afton."

“So, we're in agreement then?” Afton asked.

“Agreement on what?”

Afton tilted his head to the side and ran his fingers along his jawline, his thumb resting under his chin. “Obviously, my dashing good looks.”

Nikolai chuckled again, almost forgetting the despair he felt just minutes ago.

“Well, I’ll be sure to let the mirror know.”

That earned him a wider grin from Afton. Without warning, Afton tossed an apple he was holding towards Nikolai who instinctively reached out and caught it, but even that slight lean forward sent a jolt of pain down his backside and thighs. He sucked in a sharp breath, nearly dropping the apple.

Afton’s smile vanished. “Shit—sorry. You alright?”

He immediately jumped to his feet to rush over to Nikolai’s side only for Nikolai to wave him off as he shifted back onto his side. 

But Nikolai could tell Afton wasn’t having it. He climbed up into his bunk and dug through one of the chest drawers at the foot of his bed. A moment later, he hopped down, a small tin in his hand.

“What now?” Nikolai asked warily.

Afton knelt beside him, opened the tin, and held up a finger. “Stay still.”

“What is that?”

“Just salve. For your lip.”

Nikolai blinked. “My lip’s fine.”

“Your lip’s bleeding.”

“I’ve had worse.”

“Yeah? Well, I haven’t, and it’s messing with my appetite, so let me fix it.”

Before Nikolai could protest again, Afton dipped his finger into the tin and reached out. Nikolai flinched, but Afton was patient.

“Come on,” he said, softer now. “I’ll be quick.”

Nikolai hesitated, jaw clenched, squirming away only for Afton to pull him in closer.

“Quit it,” Afton chided, his tone firm. “For once, just let me help you. I promise I won't bite.”

Nikolai reluctantly obliged, letting Afton apply the cool salve to his skin. It stung at first, but then the burn dulled as a strange calm settled over him. Afton worked carefully, gently smoothing the ointment over the split.

As he watched Afton, Nikolai could tell that beneath his light-hearted cadence, there was something else. A shared tragedy, maybe. The practiced precision with which Afton applied the salve spoke volumes about how often he must’ve done this before. Maybe for a loved one. Maybe for himself.

Nikolai couldn’t help but wonder out loud.

“How are you so good at this?”

Afton glanced at Nikolai before resuming his task.

“It’s not something I ever wanted to be good at,” he admitted quietly. “But my parents were medics during the Waterfront war. I was going to be one, too. Follow in their footsteps. Help people. Do something good.”

“Oh, yeah?”

Afton smiled.

“Yeah.”

Nikolai frowned. “So, why didn’t you?”

“Well,” Afton began, pausing for a moment as he carefully finished up and patted Nikolai on the cheek playfully. “Sometimes you need to take a life to save a life.”

Nikolai looked up at him, surprised by his answer. But Afton didn’t offer any more insights, instead, he was grinning ear to ear. Nikolai shuddered. Maybe it was best he didn’t know what Afton meant by that.

“Eat up and try to stay out of trouble. Sorry I couldn’t get you something better, was the last thing they had left.”

Nikolai smiled sheepishly. “Thanks.”

“You got it.” Afton smiled before leaving Nikolai by himself as he headed down the hall to the washroom to clean up before lights out.

Nikolai woke up to the groans of his platoon getting ready for their 0500 training. He glanced at his neuralink on his wrist, the display showing 0447. Panic shot through him as he realized he had fallen asleep without setting his alarm. Cursing under his breath, he quickly jumped out of bed, wincing slightly as he moved. To his surprise, the pain wasn’t as bad as yesterday. Nikolai couldn’t help but smile in appreciation of Afton’s kind gesture, knowing that the pain medicine had helped.

He hastily made his way into the communal bathroom to change into his uniform. But before he could make it through the door, one of the bigger boys who was leaning against the door decided at the last minute to move right in front of him, causing Nikolai to collide face first into the boy’s shoulder.

“Watch where you’re going, dumbass,” the boy said, pushing Nikolai back.

Nikolai stumbled backward before marching right up into the boy’s face.

“What’s your fucking problem?” Nikolai spat.

“You. You’re our problem,” the boy said, shoving Nikolai again. “You couldn’t fucking stand down and now we all have to do morning drills.”

Nikolai’s jaw clenched. He wanted to say something back, anything to defend himself. But he couldn’t.

They were right.

It was his fault.

Realizing that Nikolai wasn’t going to escalate the situation, a smug grin spread across the bigger boy’s face as he leaned in closer, his hot breath practically taunting Nikolai.

“I thought so,” he sneered, before spitting on the floor near Nikolai’s feet, the boy’s shoulder hitting Nikolai’s on his way out the corridor.

Nikolai gritted his teeth, his fist clenched at his sides. Yeah. No. He won’t bash the guy’s head in. At least, not now. He had done enough. After a second or two of trying to rein in his emotions, Nikolai took a deep breath before he headed into the bathroom.

The others who were inside the bathroom didn’t have a problem showing him their displeasure either. The moment he stepped a foot inside, they all got up to leave. Some shot him angry glares, while others purposely bumped into him or attempted to trip him on their way out the door.

Nikolai sighed. There was no helping it. He didn’t blame them, he would be pissed too if he were in their shoes.

Checking the time, he realized he only had a couple minutes until he had to join his platoon outside for morning drills. Quickly, he washed his face and slipped on the training uniform of the Poseidon army, a pair of green camo pants and a navy shirt with the insignia of the trident of Poseidon on the left shoulder sleeve.

He was the last person to arrive. Everyone else was already standing at attention in rows of four. Nikolai fell into the end of the line of the last row.

Captain Gunther stood at the front of the formation, facing them. His short brown hair was slicked back, his deep-set eyes narrowed as he scanned each row.

“Good morning, soldiers,” Captain Gunther yelled across the training ground. “As you all are aware, order and obedience are paramount in Poseidon. It is why we are ranked in the top three, and it is why we will remain in the top three.”

He moved down the line, boots crunching over packed dirt as he continued. “Starting today, training intensity goes up. Morning drills will be extended. You’ll report back here after class for evening sessions. I don’t care if you’re tired. I don’t care if your coursework piles up. You will manage both. That’s the expectation.”

Then, he held up a folded slip of red paper.

It was a war notice.

“And luckily for you all, we can see how much our hard work pays off on our next scheduled scrimmage against Ares second platoon this Friday at 1800 hours.” He folded the paper and put it in his back pocket. “Any questions?”

“No, sir,” they yelled in unison.

Gunther nodded. “Good, then let’s begin.”

One by one, they moved through each training obstacle while Captain Gunther observed from the sidelines, his sharp eyes tracking every movement. Occasionally, he stepped in with a couple corrections. They were always short and direct. The sun had just started to rise by the time they were done. No sparring today.

Nikolai almost wondered if that was for his sake. The thought barely formed before he shoved it aside. Captain Gunther? Concerned for him?

Eventually, Gunther called out again, informing them it was time to hit the washroom and clean up before class.

Nikolai headed off with the others, but just as he reached the washroom door, a hand closed around his arm and yanked him back. He spun around, fist already halfway up, adrenaline still firing hot through his veins from drills.

To his surprise, it was Dax. “Whoa, easy there, Nikolai,” Dax said, raising his hands in defense.

“You don’t grab someone like that, man,” Nikolai scoffed.

“Sorry, sorry. Force of habit. Anyways, Nikolai,” Dax said, looking at him and then the door. “You don’t want to go in there right now.”

Nikolai gradually dropped his fist, narrowing his eyes. “What are you talking about?”

Dax looked around cautiously before leaning in closer, whispering. “Because they’re all in there waiting for you. They’re still pissed off about this morning. If I were you, I'd take my ass to class. Now.”

Dax leaned back, pretending as if nothing happened, and loudly yawned while saying, “I wonder what we’re having for breakfast,” before leaving Nikolai in front of the washroom door.

Nikolai stared at Dax suspiciously before looking at the door, taunting him. Daring himself to walk through it. Part of him wanted to as a last act of penitence. And the other part of him wanted to just because he could. There was no point in avoiding them. After all, there will be other times when he’s alone. Defenseless, unexpected.

“I’m really fucked up, aren't I?” he asked himself before he took a deep breath and walked through the door.

Chapter Text

Nikolai stepped into the washroom, his senses immediately alerting him to the suffocating silence. He could feel the others eyes’ boring into the back of his head. 

One. 

Two. 

Three. 

Four. 

Five.

There were five at the sink. He looked around. There were two more in the showers that coincidentally shut off their water the moment he walked in. So only about half of the platoon agree to participate in his ass beating? He chuckled to himself. So much for a united front. Keeping his head down while taking a mental note of where each person was, he made his way toward his locker at the far end of the washroom, past the sinks and the showers.

He fumbled with his locker for a second, trying his best to still his trembling hand, pretending as if he didn’t notice the sound of footsteps approaching behind him. Finally, his locker opened with a click, and Nikolai began to take off his muddy shirt and tossed it on the bench behind him. But before he could reach into his locker, the locker slammed shut with such force that it rattled the lockers next to them. Startled, he whirled around to find himself staring into the familiar dark brown eyes of one of the big boys from earlier who pushed him in front of the washroom door. And behind the bigger boy, were the rest of them. All seven, standing there, with murder in their eyes. 

Except this time, Nikolai didn’t hesitate to push him out of his face first.

“Get the fuck away from me,” Nikolai hissed, his hands pushing the boy in front of him. The boy stumbled backward for a second before using one hand on the bench to catch his fall, while his other hand stopped the six boys behind him from rushing forward, their fist ready. 

So he’s the ring leader, Nikolai noted. What was his name? Mark? Mitch?

“Let’s just fucking ice him, man,” the boy to the right said, his hand already trying to push the bigger boy’s arm out of the way.

“Yeah–let’s ice him!” another boy sneered.

“Yeah, Marcus. Let’s go!”

The rest of the boys cheered in agreement.

Marcus, huh?

Nikolai swallowed. If there were only three or even four of them, he could’ve taken them on. Maybe left with a couple bruises here and there. Nothing too serious. Painful, yes. But recoverable. But unfortunately, there were seven of them. Fuck. He was really out of his element. He snickered to himself like the madman he is. Again, what was he trying to prove to himself by walking in here? That he’s pigheaded? Check. Could’ve figured that out, without all this pretense.

Looking toward the door, he calculated how long it’d take for him to run before they could grab him. He clenched his jaw. The numbers didn’t look too good. 

Plan B it is.

He squared his shoulders and brought his fist up to his face, ready.

“Look at that, boys,” the ringleader–Marcus–taunted. “The little piss stain thinks he can take us on.”

“Better a piss stain than cowards like you,” Nikolai retorted.

Marcus' smile faded. His head tilted to the side. A glint in his eyes. Nikolai recognized that look right away.

Danger.

Nikolai stepped back with one hand slowly snaking into his back pocket to grab a hold of the leftover mud that was caked into his pants. They were still soft to the touch, but they’d harden soon, so it was now or never.

In that exact moment, Marcus dropped his hands and all at once, they lunged at him. 

Quickly, Nikolai scooped the mud from his pocket and threw it at their eyes, in hopes of slowing them down to make a run for it. But before he could take more than four steps, one of the boys grabbed his wrist and pulled him back. Nikolai twisted around and landed a kick at the boy’s chest, his hands letting go of Nikolai’s. And by the time he got free, two more were already at his heels, one coming at him from the left, another from the right. He ducked down, narrowly dodging the punch from the left, and then landed a punch to the right, and then an uppercut to the left, right before whirling around to kick another one coming at him from behind. 

Midway through his kick, he failed to see Marcus sweeping his legs from underneath, causing him to smash face first into the floor. Pain shot through Nikolai, his nose making an audible crack when met with the floor as blood began to pool down his face. 

Right then and there, Nikolai knew he was done. 

Even without the broken nose, he couldn’t escape. 

They had the height advantage now. 

Nikolai tried to push himself off the floor before they could close in on him like hungry vultures, but it was too late. From behind, a heavy foot pinned his leg down, another foot attempted to kick his face from the side but Nikolai managed to use his arms to brace against the kick, only for a sharp blow to land on his exposed stomach, knocking the wind out of him. And before he could recover, another kick struck his back, sending a burst of pain through his body.

The relentless assault continued, each blow driving Nikolai deeper into the floor, until his body convulsed with pain as he struggled to shield himself from the blows. But just as he felt himself teetering on the brink of unconsciousness, the onslaught came to an abrupt halt. Through the haze of the pain, Nikolai could hear Marcus ordering two boys to hold him up. Each one took hold of his arms and hoisted him into a semi-upright position. His body limp, his legs barely able to hold up his own weight.

Marcus sneered as he grabbed a fistful of Nikolai’s hair, yanking his head back so their eyes met. 

“Look at me, you piece of shit,” Marcus hissed, his voice dripping with contempt. 

Marcus shook his head again. Nikolai hissed in pain, one eye swollen shut, the other barely making out Marcus' twisted expression.

“Thought you were better than us, huh? Thought you could do whatever the hell you wanted?”

Nikolai laughed, feeling suicidal, before whispering, “At least, better than you–”

Marcus cut him off with a punch to his face.

Nikolai yelped in pain.

Marcus’s grip tightened.

“Better than me?” Marcus growled, his face inches from Nikolai’s. “That’s a lot coming from a fucking worm, who doesn’t know food from his own shit. Let me tell you something, worm. You just got here. You ain’t nothing here. Maybe nothing ever. So if you want to get iced out, then just say so and I’ll make it quick for you.”

Marcus released Nikolai’s hair with a shove and then signaled to the boys holding him.

“Drop him,” Marcus ordered.

They dropped him to the floor with a thud. Gasping for breath, Nikolai felt like he was suffocating. Each breath was an anchor sinking him deeper into the midnight sea as his vision faded in and out of focus.

Nikolai fought to remain conscious, but he was losing that fight.

“Pull something dumb like this again and I’ll finish what I started.”

Nikolai could barely hear through the ringing of his ears. He wondered if they had bursted his ear drums or if it was a sign that he was slipping further into oblivion. And then, his vision began to fade as darkness finally creeped in from its’ edges until everything dissolved into black.

—

In his dream, he was sitting down on the floor of their living room, with its olive green drapes and faded brown couch, worn from years of use. A white threadbare rug lay beneath, its coarseness tickled the underside of his bare legs. 

In his hand was the wooden horse he carved. Its form, chipped in all the wrong places, was still undeniably a horse.

He smiled at that fact.

He was eight again.

Growing up, there weren't many things he was good at. Sure, he was the fastest runner at school and one of the best fighters in close combat for his age. But Cassian and Juno were better at things that actually matter. Like tactical warfare and weaponry fundamentals, classes that’d make a difference for the war effort. 

Classes that’d make them future commanders. 

But that was okay. It didn’t matter to him that they were better than him, or that he didn’t try as hard to become the best.

Everything was okay, because he was happy.

And nothing made him happier than carving that horse by himself.

Why?

Because it was the last thing he did with his brother, with Mikhael.

Mikhael.

All of a sudden, the floor beneath him gave way and swallowed him whole, plummeting him into darkness until he found himself huddled beneath the familiar dining room table.   The air thick with dust, dim light flickered through the cracked lightbulb above. Besides him knelt Mikhael, who’s hand firmly held onto Nikolai’s while his other hand held his wooden horse. 

“It’s okay, Niko,” Mikhael reassured. His voice, confident, not once betraying a hint of fear that was obvious on Nikolai’s face. “C’mere,” Mikhael grabbed Nikolai into his embrace, his arms wrapped around Nikolai as he purred in his ears, “They won’t hurt us, baby brother. It’s okay.”

For a moment, they remained there, sheltered beneath the table, his ear against his brother’s chest, the world above fading into obscurity.

—

Nikolai’s eyes fluttered open, the sterile smell of rubbing alcohol invaded his nose before the white walls of the infirmary room gradually came into focus. His mouth was dry as if he ate chalk. And when he tried to ask for water, he found his lips swollen, his voice barely a rasp. His body was wrapped in fresh bandages, an ice pack on his side. He shifted uncomfortably to the side, trying to see if there was any water nearby, but instead, he froze at the sight of the man next to him. 

It was Captain Gunther.

The captain was sifting through stacks of paper, his usual sleek-back hair now in disarray, his expression dark, tired even. His eyes darted from one paper to another as if in search of something that wasn’t quite there. Nikolai realized that the captain wasn’t aware that he was awake.

Appreciating the respite from his attention, Nikolai turned back around, settling back into his original position. His eyes closed, feigning sleep, as he listened to the rustle of papers, hoping that they’d send him back to the fleeting remnant of a dream he couldn’t recall.  

As Nikolai lay there, he couldn’t help but wonder why the captain was there. The captain’s presence was unexpected, to say the least, and he couldn’t help but wonder what purpose it served. Was the captain here to yell at him for what happened in the washroom? Or maybe to ensure that he was fit to return to duty? 

Or maybe, just maybe, the captain wanted to make sure he wasn’t dead? That the captain cared about his well-being, in some sort of twisted way? That seemed important enough, couldn’t have a war game if a platoon had less than twelve members. Right?

Fuck. 

Nikolai grimaced in pain, a sharp pain erupted at his side when he accidentally shifted in the wrong direction.

“Be careful there,” Captain Gunther cautioned. “You don’t want to break another rib.” 

Nikolai slowly opened his eyes, trying to sit up, his throat like sandpaper.

As if reading his mind, he handed Nikolai a glass of cold water, which he eagerly accepted and chugged. Through the glass, Nikolai warily eyed the captain as he drank, his gaze flickering over the rim to the man before him. He held his breath, waiting for any signs of anger or an impending lecture. Instead, the captain simply watched him drink his water, his papers now resting on the bedside table next to the bed.

Nikolai wondered how long the captain had been sitting there.

“Do you want another glass?” the captain asked, not waiting for a response, already getting up and refilling a glass from the pitcher. 

He replaced the empty glass in Nikolai’s hand with the new one.

Nikolai, not knowing what to make of it, stammered out a quiet, “Thank you, sir."

Gunther nodded.

After a moment of silence, Captain Gunther ran his hand through his hair, his broad shoulders not once slumped underneath the obvious sign of fatigue etched across his face. 

His jaws were set, his expression unreadable as he watched Nikolai.

Finally, he spoke, his voice controlled.

“Nikolai, I need to know what happened. Who did this to you?”

Nikolai fidgeted under the captain’s scrutiny, his own unease palpable in the air.

“It was… dark, sir,” he muttered, avoiding eye contact. “I didn’t see who it was.”

“Hm,” the captain responded, his tone betraying his skepticism. He leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest.

“We found you with the lights on.”

“Oh, really?” Nikolai feigned surprise, chuckling to himself awkwardly, hoping Gunther didn’t notice the nervous laughter in his voice. “I guess—I guess they have a good sense of humor then.”

“They?” Gunther inquired, his eyebrows furrowed. “So I presume this was the work of more than one person?”

His observation was met with a flinch from Nikolai, confirming Gunther's suspicions.

The captain’s eyes darkened at the thought. For a moment, Nikolai caught a fleeting glimpse of anger flashing across the captain’s face and as soon as it appeared, it passed like a shadow. 

“I see,” the captain said curtly, more to himself than to Nikolai. “It was more than one person.” 

Nikolai’s heart began to pound in his chest as he panicked. “But sir, it could’ve been just one person—I could hardly see past my own ass to be honest with you, and —”

“Enough,” Gunther cut him off. “Regardless, I will find out. The fact remains, we do not tolerate inner fighting amongst the members in Poseidon. Whoever did this to you, they will be dealt with accordingly.”

Captain Gunther’s threat punched Nikolai in the gut. He wanted to protest further, to defend Marcus and the others, but the words escaped him. Why was he protecting them? Why should he care what happens to them if he told the truth? His mind raced. 

He knew why.

Deep down, Nikolai felt that he deserved it. He felt that whatever Marcus and his cronies dished out, it was well deserved because he was the reason why the entire platoon was punished. Why they lost their win streak. It was all because he couldn’t fucking stand down when he was suppose to. 

Because he thought he knew better. 

Because he thought that he was better.

He figured that if he took a little beating, they would forgive him, let bygones be bygones. An eye for an eye. Not so much now if he betrayed them. There were certain unspoken rules amongst those who trained and bled under the same sun. And there was no way in hell Nikolai was going to break it. 

If he did, he was worse than a worm. 

As Captain Gunther stood up from his chair, getting ready to leave, Nikolai wrestled with his internal turmoil. A lump formed in his throat, his eyes beginning to sting with unshed tears. He blinked rapidly, as if trying to force back the overwhelming wave of emotions threatening to consume him.

Suddenly, he felt Captain Gunther’s firm hand gently gripping his face.

“What’s wrong?” the captain asked, moving Nikolai’s face side to side, searching for hidden injuries. Briefly, his warm brown eyes met Nikolai’s ocean blue. “Are you hurt?”

Nikolai froze, caught off guard, his cheeks flushed with embarrassment before he brushed away the captain’s hand and quickly looked away.

“Of course, I’m hurt. Have you seen my face?”

“Yes, and it has seen better days,” Gunther responded with a faint smile. Not offended by the younger boy’s deflection, he patted Nikolai on the leg, rose from his seat, and retrieved his uniform jacket from the end of the bed.

Gunther folded his jacket and draped it over his arm. “Commander Dallas will be addressing everyone in the barracks at 1800 hours,” he said, checking his neuralink. “That’s in two hours. You’re expected to be there.” 

He paused for a moment before continuing, “By then, the meds should numb most of the pain, but I’ll send Afton over just in case. He can help you walk back to the barracks.”

Nikolai began to voice his objection against the uninvited assistance, but he closed his mouth abruptly as a sharp twinge of pain shot through him. Maybe help wouldn’t be too bad, right? It was Afton, after all. Anyone else would be unacceptable. Nikolai nodded to himself. That’s right. Afton already saw him like this—well, not exactly in this state, but—close enough. That’s it. That’s all he needed. 

Just close enough.

With that, Gunther walked over to the cooler in the corner of the room and retrieved another ice pack. He tossed it to Nikolai who caught it midair.

“Continue keeping your ribs iced,” he instructed.

Nikolai nodded.

Gunther headed to the door and stood there for a moment, casting a brief glance back at Nikolai as if trying to remember anything else he needed to say.

“Nikolai?” Gunther said gently.

Nikolai looked up.

“Try not to move too much. You don’t want to risk fracturing the other one.”

Nikolai nodded.

Gunther smiled at him before closing the door on his way out. But as soon as the door clicked shut, Gunther's expression darkened.

Next to the door stood a blonde man in his early twenties. He was casually leaning against the wall with his hands in his pocket. An air of nonchalance about him. Yet, stitched in black below the insignia of Poseidon was Commander Dallas Amadeus, its thread managed to capture the meager light filtering through the hallway. A sly smile flirted on the edge of his lips. His eyes, sharp, poised like a snake ready to strike.

“He said more than one?” 

Gunther nodded.

The man smiled, and then licked his lips.

“I was looking forward to watching the war game between Hades and Apollo tonight, but it sounds like our children need a lesson in playing nice.” 

Commander Dallas threw his arm around Gunther's shoulders, steering him down the hallway.

“Onward, Gunther—we have some wayward children to catch!”

Chapter Text

After Captain Gunther left, Nikolai thought he’d take solace in the silence. Yet, all he wanted to do was to drown in a different type of silence that only sleep could bring, where the looming dread of walking back to the barracks in two hours didn’t exist. The thought of Marcus and his goons taking pleasure in seeing his condition made him groan in frustration. For a moment, he considered toppling over his bed to see if the floor would knock him out instead.

However, a thought stopped him before he could scoot closer to the edge of the bed.

Captain Gunther wouldn’t be too happy about that. He frowned. Wait a minute. Why should he care about what Captain Gunther thought? Just yesterday, the man was beating him within an inch of his life, and yet, the captain almost looked concerned for him today.

Wait a minute. The captain? Concerned?

Was the captain even capable of that?

Nikolai scoffed. He doubted it. 

Everyone knew the captain was a hard man to read. 

And even a harder man to please. 

The moment he entered Vanguard and received his assignment to Captain’s Gunther’s third platoon, he knew he was screwed. One of the greenies he entered Vanguard with told him that out of all the captains here, the one person he’d hate to be assigned to was Captain Gunther’s. Why? Apparently, the man only lived and breathed the war games. Everything else was secondary, and he expected the same from those underneath him. It was why he became a captain so young. He was born to lead. To him, victory was not an aspiration but an expectation.

Not anymore, I guess.

Nikolai snickered, almost relishing in the fact that he, alone, broke the golden boy record. Sure, he got his ass handed to him on a golden platter. But for what it was worth, seeing the captain’s usual calm and collected veneer cracking, however briefly, proved to Nikolai that even the most unyielding forces could be challenged. Though, it was probably in his best interest to lay low and stay off the captain’s radar until the dust settled. Which meant his plan to knock himself out on the floor was not an option. 

Bummer.

He collapsed back on the bed and spent the next two hours twisting and turning until he gave up finding a position that made the pain manageable. By then, it was already time for him to get ready to head back to the barracks. Reluctantly, Nikolai slowly made his way off the bed and stood up, one hand using the bed to steady himself. Expecting a burst of pain, he was surprised to find that the pain in his abdomen and back, which had taken the brunt of the beating, had somewhat subsided. His gaze then fell upon the neatly folded uniform on the dresser. 

Dragging his feet, he walked over and reached for the uniform, the cool fabric felt stiff under his fingertips. Just as he was in the midst of buttoning up his shirt, someone knocked on the door before popping it open with a thud.

With his usual smirk, Afton swaggered into the room and whistled in surprise as he took in Nikolai’s battered state.

Nikolai rolled his eyes and resumed buttoning up his shirt. 

“Thanks for knocking,” Nikolai said sarcastically.

“Hey there, sunshine. I’m glad I was able to patch you up the other day before your date with the ground. I can see that she’s a tough kisser.”

“Oh, the best,” Nikolai mumbled under his breath. “Nothing more romantic than a broken nose.”

Afton laughed, the sound warm in the chill room. 

“Looks like your face got more than just a goodnight kiss,” Afton nodded towards Nikolai’s bruised midsection. “Got a few love bites to brag about too, huh?”

“Yeah, well, I managed to sneak in a couple of my own,” Nikolai shot back.

“I don’t doubt that for a second,” Afton said, his expression softened. “Gunther said I have to escort you back before Dallas starts the grand festivities tonight. Apparently, watching you make out with the floor isn’t the highlight of his evening.”

Nikolai gave a quiet chuckle, his nervousness apparent to Afton.

“That’s a shame. I was planning on giving him an encore performance two hours ago.”

Afton perked up. “Oh, really?”

Nikolai’s face flushed with embarrassment, forgetting for a second that Afton wasn’t privy to his earlier plan with the floor.

“Uh, anyways,” Nikolai brushed off while he shrugged on his uniform jacket. “Anything new since I’ve been… gone?”

Afton’s lips turned into a lopsided grin, his arms crossing over his chest as he leaned back against the door frame. “Well,” he began, his voice laced with amusement. “Let’s just say that things have not been this interesting until you came along and for that, I am most grateful.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Mhm.” Afton nodded. “Your little rendezvous this morning is all everyone’s talking about. Some are taking bets on who’s behind it, and let me tell you, it’s not just Poseidon who’s taking bets. It’s the entire school.”

Nikolai frowned.

Afton paused, noticing Nikolai’s confusion. 

“You’re in Gunther’s platoon,” Afton said pointedly.

Nikolai’s face was blank, still clearly confused. “So?”

“So, Nikolai,” Afton continued, his grin fading. “Gunther’s platoon has never been under this type of scrutiny before, not to this magnitude. For as long as anyone can remember, Gunther has always been—well, perfect. His platoon is the point of comparison for everyone else.” His voice lowered to almost a whisper. “But now? With this incident? There’s talk. A lot of talk. They thought he was God, but now they think him weak.”

Nikolai’s eyes widened as Afton’s words sank in. “Weak?”

“Yeah,” Afton confirmed. “The incident sparked a lot of debates about Gunther’s leadership. Whether he’s losing his grip or has the ability to control his own platoon. It’s… it’s not just a small matter anymore, Nikolai. This has put Gunther—and by extension—all of us, in everyone else’s crosshair.”

The gravity of Afton’s revelations knocked the air out of Nikolai.

He was stunned.

"And Captain Gunther?" Nikolai managed to choke out, a lump already forming in his throat.

Afton sighed, pushing off from the door frame to make his way over to Nikolai. “I’m sure he’s fine. He never cared about what others thought of him, but I can tell it’s affecting him. He’s never been publicly questioned before, so I can’t imagine it being easy. But you know, everything that goes up must come down, so don’t blame yourself too much.”

Nikolai shook his head, as if in disbelief. “I didn’t mean for this to happen, Afton.” 

“Oh? Did you not have a choice?”

Nikolai paused and looked up to meet Afton’s gaze. “It would’ve happened regardless.”

“Really? Because something tells me that you had a choice.” Afton cleared his throat and leaned in close as he whispered in Nikolai’s ear, "You would’ve told me if you had a choice, right?”

Nikolai stiffened. 

Did Dax tell him? 

“With all things considered, I think I handled it pretty well,” Nikolai scoffed, knowing that his poor attempt at defending himself sounded feeble to his own ears. 

Afton threw his head back and burst out in laughter. “You call that handling?”

Before Nikolai had time to respond, Afton’s demeanor shifted. He leaned back, his expression eased back into the familiar smirk Nikolai always knew. “Lighten up, sunshine. What’s done is done.” Afton placed his hand on Nikolai’s shoulder and gave it a reassuring squeeze. “Now, come on. Let's head back before Dallas loses all the pretty hair on his head waiting for us.”

Nikolai blinked in surprise, the abrupt change in Afton caught him completely off guard. 

What the hell?

He made a mental note to himself to never piss off Afton, he was in no hurry to see what Afton looked like when he’s truly angry. Taking a deep breath, Nikolai squared his shoulders and straightened his posture. If he was going to meet the firing squad, he might as well do it with dignity. With his head held high, he stepped out the door with Afton by his side. 

—

Together, Nikolai and Afton made their way down the corridor to the barracks. The closer they got, the slower their pace became. Eventually, the barracks came into view too soon for Nikolai's liking. But instead of walking in, Afton, who was in front of the door, abruptly turned around. 

"Listen," Afton said. "Once we go in, you keep your mouth shut and only speak when spoken to. Do not interrupt Commander Dallas while he’s talking. And if he asks you a question, answer it—do not give your opinion. And please, pretend that you at least value your life, do not lie to him. Alright?"

Nikolai, taken aback, slowly nodded. “Yeah, sure. Whatever you say, Afton.”

Afton, satisfied, turned back around.

“Alright, let’s head in.”

As they stepped inside, instead of the usual sound of chatter, they were met with tension so thick that it seemed to suck the air out from the room. Everyone was already in uniform, standing at full attention in their respective lines as their eyes were fixed ahead with their hands clasped behind their back.

Not a single person dared glance in his and Afton’s direction. 

At the head of the formation stood Commander Dallas, his blonde hair falling effortlessly midway down his neck in a way that managed to be both unkempt and entirely intentional. The commander was laughing along to something Captain Elias said, his blonde hair cascaded around his sharp features as his laugh carried an edge that made Nikolai’s skin crawl. Behind the commander, the three Captains—Elias, Christof, and Gunther—stood in perfect alignment as they surveyed the room.

Before Nikolai fell into line, the commander’s laughter ceased abruptly as Nikolai’s eyes found Commander Dallas’s.

The sudden silence that followed made his stomach drop as he tried his best to maintain any semblance of composure while the Commander’s eyes bored into his skull from across the room. 

Finally, Commander Dallas's focus shifted from Nikolai to address the room. His tone was soft, almost playful, “Good evening, everyone. I trust you all had a productive morning today?” The sarcasm dripped from the commander’s every word, yet his face remained adorned with a smile that made Nikolai uneasy.

“I certainly didn’t,” Commander Dallas said, frowning, as if he was deeply hurt. “There I was in the mess hall, getting ready to read through the daily reports from your lovely captains. A highlight of my day, truly. And then I was rudely interrupted by—can you take a guess?”

Nobody answered. 

“No? I’m sure you’ve all heard about the spectacle this morning.” He waved his hand in the air impassively. His face was full of mock-concern. “Yes, a little… squabble, if you will, between some of our very own.”

He started pacing as his lips curled into a smile that never reached his eyes.

“You see, what irritates me isn’t the insignificant voices outside of these walls. That out there? It’s all just white noise. Little nothings.” He pinched the bridge of his nose in exasperation, not once dropping his smile.

“No, what irritates me is the sheer audacity of anyone laying a finger on what is mine. And make no mistake—you all are mine,” his cold gaze swept across the room. “And I do not appreciate when someone touches my things, especially without my permission, because only I am allowed to break my toys."

He halted his pacing to face his soldiers, allowing a brief silence to fill the room as his words sank in. “So when you decide to take matters into your own hands, not only are you challenging my authority, but you’re also trampling on the loyalty we owe each other. For that, it cannot go unpunished.”

Nikolai felt a chill run down his spine as the threat hung in the air like a noose. He can tell that Commander Dallas relished in their fear, savoring it with every word he uttered.

“I’m well aware of who was involved,” Commander Dallas continued. “And I will only ask once for those responsible to step forward. Not because of a chance at leniency, of which I will not grant, but because of the respect due to your fellow teammates for the transgression you’ve committed.”

He clapped his hands together, grinning. “So, what will it be?”

For a moment, the room felt frozen in time. 

Everyone was holding their breath, including Nikolai, who couldn’t help but glance in Marcus’s direction. To Nikolai’s surprise, Marcus looked pale, almost ghostly. Gone was the cocky smirk Nikolai hated. In its place was pure, unfiltered fear. His lips were pressed into a thin line, his jaw clenched as if fighting to keep himself from falling apart. It was clear that Commander Dallas’s words had struck a nerve. 

For a second, Nikolai almost felt bad for him. 

Almost.

As the silence stretched on, Commander Dallas's patience began wearing thin. His grin slowly faded into an unamused frown. But before he had a chance to speak, Marcus suddenly stepped out of formation.

“Sir, it was me,” Marcus said, his voice not once betraying the fear in his eyes. “I initiated it, and I am deeply apologetic for my actions and I take full responsibility. The others,” he paused, glancing briefly behind him, “they would not have been involved if not for me. Please, forgive them, sir, and punish me instead."

Marcus's sudden confession left the room in stunned silence. It was as if the wall itself was holding its breath. Every pair of eyes in the room darted between him and Commander Dallas, waiting for the inevitable pin to drop. 

Nikolai was not an exception.

It was as if he was seeing Marcus for the first time. 

Up until this moment, Nikolai had pegged Marcus as nothing more than a self-serving prick, who wanted to prove a point. But now, after his sudden martyrdom, Nikolai wondered if Marcus actually gave a shit about someone else besides himself. Or maybe, he was admitting fault out of fear of retaliation? He knew Marcus was aiming to become captain. Maybe he was taking responsibility to gain back Commander Dallas trust? 

Whatever it was, Nikolai did not trust a single word out of his mouth.

The commander took a few deliberate steps forward, closing the distance between him and Marcus. “Commendable,” Commander Dallas said, his words contradicting the cold, almost mocking inflection of his tone. “Unfortunately, I cannot do so.”

Once the commander stood directly in front of Marcus, he leaned in, his hands casually sliding into his pockets. His eyes locked with the younger boy who instinctively withered underneath his gaze.

“It seems like we have a misunderstanding, my dear Marcus,” the commander said softly as if he was chastising a child. “Asking for forgiveness on behalf of your accomplices, requesting leniency for actions not solely your own—that’s not a call you can make.”

“So, who else?” The commander asked, his eyes not once straying from Marcus.

Nikolai quickly stole a glance at the others who were involved in his beatdown, wondering if they, too, would step forward. After all, Commander Dallas made it abundantly clear that he knew who was involved, so why bother making the already pissed off man wait? 

Then, as if reading his mind, a boy to Marcus’s left stepped out of formation, his voice cracking as he admitted, “It was me, sir.” He was quickly followed by another, “I was involved as well, sir,” and a quiet, “Me, too, sir.” Like the first drops of rain before a storm, the admissions of guilt dribbled in one by one until the room was awash in a downpour. 

With the last of the confession, Commander Dallas leaned back, his previous frown gave way to a devilish grin, as if this exact moment—was precisely what he expected. Without another word, he turned on his heel, and walked back to the front of the formation to face his assembled soldiers.

“Well then, let’s get up here, shall we? You, too, Nikolai.” 

Nikolai’s ear perked up at his name and for a second, he thought his heart was going to jump out of his chest. He quickly glanced at Afton, who gave him a reassuring nod, as if to say, “Go ahead, it’ll be okay.” The small gesture was enough to steel Nikolai’s nerves, or at least, enough to get his feet moving as he trailed behind the others to the front.

Once there, they stood before their commander with their backs to their fellow soldiers.

Commander Dallas turned to face Marcus again, studying him for a long moment.

The commander licked his lips. “Very well, Marcus. If you so desperately want to be the fall guy, then I shall oblige you. As for the rest of you,” he paused as his eyes dragged the other guilty party across the coals, “I’ll leave Captain Gunther to decide your fate. After all, he’s your God, and as the person who hired God, he has my full endorsement to deal with you as he sees fit.”

At the mention of Captain Gunther, Nikolai shot him a quick glance. To his surprise, the captain’s expression was one of barely concealed frustration, his fist were clenched by his side. His jaws, set in a line. Clearly something was bothering him.

“So, how many ribs did you say were broken, Nikolai?” 

Nikolai's eyes flicked back to the commander. 

Confused, he answered, “Two, sir.” 

“And your nose, it is broken as well?”

Nikolai nodded, but caught himself before responding with a “Yes, sir.”

“Anything else?”

Nikolai shook his head. “No, sir.”

And in the blink of an eye, Commander Dallas’s fist connected with Marcus’s ribs with a sickening, audible crack that reverberated through the barracks. Marcus’s reaction was immediate. His body crumbled, his knees buckled from underneath him as he fell to the ground, hunched over. His hands were still clasped behind him, not once attempting to use it to break his own fall. 

“One,” the commander counted dispassionately as he towered over Marcus.

For a moment, there was nothing but the sound of Marcus’s strained breathing and Nikolai’s unexpected pang of guilt for the boy doubling over in front of him. Sure, he hated Marcus for everything he has done to him. Yet, to stand here and watch him suffer? 

It wasn’t what he wanted.

Not really. 

Not like this.

“Up,” Commander Dallas said, as the single word made Nikolai and everyone else around him grimace in its implication. 

Just as Marcus barely staggered to his feet, Commander Dallas delivered another blow to Marcus’s ribs, this time, slightly above the first. The punch knocked him to the floor, his hand shot out to instinctively brace against the pain as he hunched over, gasping in agony, while a puddle of blood and spit collected beneath him.

“Two.”

Commander Dallas then grabbed a fistful of Marcus’s hair to drag him up from the floor into a kneeling position before him. Marcus’s face was slick with sweat and blood. His lips, parted in an attempt to draw in ragged breaths, trembled uncontrollably. Each of his shallow breaths made his whole body shudder in pain. 

With a deliberate movement, Commander Dallas nudged his foot against the arms wrapped around Marcus’s ribs. A silent command. Reluctantly, Marcus folded his hands behind his back, leaving himself at the mercy of his commander’s wrath. 

“We’re almost done, my dear,” the commander whispered softly as if to comfort him. 

With that, the commander delivered Marcus from his misery with a swift punch to his face, knocking the boy unconscious. His nose, a broken dam of red. 

Nikolai's stomach churned. 

Immediately, he averted his gaze at the gruesome scene.

For the second time this week, Nikolai felt like he was going to hurl. 

Commander released his hold on Marcus, who slumped to the floor, face first. Commander Dallas then pulled out a handkerchief from his pocket as he began meticulously wiping the blood off his knuckles, his eyes scanning the room.

“As for the rest of you, let Marcus be an example of what misguided leadership looks like. Now, you are dismissed.”

Chapter Text

As the others dispersed and Commander Dallas headed out with Captain Elias to discussed an upcoming war game, the eerie silence that fell over the barracks amplified the weight of Nikolai’s emotions while he stood transfixed by the ribbons of red smeared across the floor beneath the unconscious boy—the same boy who had beaten him unconscious and left him to bleed out on the cold washroom floor only hours earlier. 

A tinge of bitterness began crawling its way up his throat. 

This was justice, right—so why should he feel anything but satisfaction?

After all, it wasn’t his fault that Marcus volunteered to step forward. 

For all he knew, Commander Dallas was bluffing. How could the commander have known it was Marcus? It could’ve been any one of the other thirty guys. Apparently, everyone hated his guts except for Afton, so the idea wasn’t too farfetched. 

And for a guy his size, all it took was three punches to knock him out? How ridiculous, since Nikolai’s own beatdown had been far longer, far more brutal. Marcus should’ve at least stood his ground, so Nikolai didn’t have this annoying guilt gnawing at him. 

But still, this wasn’t supposed to happen. Marcus wasn’t supposed to get hurt, especially when Nikolai was the one who knowingly walked into that washroom. 

It was supposed to be his decision to make, and his decision to bear alone.

And yet, his pride refused to buckle.

Grappling with his own emotions, Nikolai barely registered the presence of Captain Gunther and two of his soldiers kneeling on either side of Marcus. They were trying to gently hoist him up by looping his arms around the shoulders of the person to the left and right of Marcus. Their hushed voices sounded distant like echoes in a tunnel. It wasn’t until Nikolai felt a sudden shove against his shoulder, did he snap back to reality. He turned around to find Dax pushing past him to knelt on one knee in front of Marcus, his arms reaching back, ready to grab hold of the unconscious boy. 

“I’ll take him to the infirmary,” Dax assured, his calm tone contrasting the concern written all over his face.

They carefully lifted Marcus onto Dax’s back as Nikolai watched. Part of him wanted to step forward, to help carry the burden he felt partly responsible for. Yet, as he took a half-step forward, Dax's eyes shot him a silent rebuke that froze Nikolai in his tracks.

In that moment, a surge of shame washed over Nikolai as memories of Dax warning him to stay away from the washroom came rushing back. Quickly, Nikolai averted his gaze and clenched his jaw in frustration. Dax would never understand the unfair position Nikolai was put in. He had no choice but to go in there. Sooner or later, they were going to corner him, be it in the washroom or somewhere else when he was alone. It wasn’t as if Nikolai asked Dax to warn him. He could’ve just left and said nothing, and Nikolai would’ve still chosen to go inside. So why was Dax acting as if all of this was entirely his fault? 

Nikolai groaned. 

All he wanted was for this to be over, was that too much to ask? 

Once Dax disappeared out of the room with Marcus on his back, the earlier chaos seemed to follow them, leaving behind quiet shuffles of feet and accusatory glares prickling the back of Nikolai’s neck.

Needing space away from it all, Nikolai started heading out of the room only for Captain’s Gunther voice to suddenly cut through the quiet. 

“Nikolai,” the captain said, approaching him. 

Nikolai glanced toward the captain, trying to decipher the subtle shift in his expression. Gone was the hint of anger from moments ago, in its stead was his usual stoic. 

“You need to be at the infirmary as well, it’s best to have the medic monitor your condition for another day. I’ll be stopping by to check up on you and Marcus in an hour,” he said, his tone clipped. 

Captain Gunther looked exhausted.

Nikolai could tell the antics of today were getting to him, and although he didn’t want to further chip away at the captain’s patience, he couldn’t help but offer a scoff in response to the thought of being in the same room as Marcus.

But all the captain could see was a clear sign of disrespect, and his tone made it obvious that he wasn’t having any of it.

“I know we had a conversation about obedience and consequences, do we need to tackle disrespect as well?” the captain asked pointedly.

Taken aback, Nikolai breath hitched as his eyebrows knitted together in confusion. 

But before Nikolai realized the misunderstanding that had just occurred, his frustration beat him to the finish line to his better judgment. 

As per usual.

“No—you don’t get it!” Nikolai burst out. “It’s not about disrespect! It’s about how I’m supposed to sit there, in the same room, a foot away from him—after everything?”

His outburst snapped the attention of a few soldiers lingering nearby, who paused on their way to the washroom to watch the commotion. Captain Gunther’s expression remained unchanged as he cleared his throat. The others, sensing the tension, quickly resumed their activities, trying to appear as uninterested in the exchange as possible. 

The captain’s eyes narrowed, his voice deadly calm. “You think you’re the only one affected by what happened today?”

Nikolai's stomach dropped.

“No, Captain—that’s not,” a sudden realization dawned on Nikolai, but before he could fully explain himself, the captain cut him off. 

“—when you are a part of Poseidon, it is not about you anymore, Nikolai. Everyone in this unit bears the weight of every single decision you make. Directly or indirectly, we all bear it just the same.”

Captain Gunther stepped closer, his presence shortening the space between them. 

Nikolai opened his mouth to protest but closed it just as quickly when he realized the captain wasn’t finished.

“Your discomfort does not outweigh the collective need of our unit. You were trained for this, like each and every single person in this room. Now, you need to live up to it. And if you think sitting in the same room with someone who has wronged you is tough, think about those who have had to make much greater sacrifices without complaint. That’s what it means to serve. That’s the commitment you made. Or correct me if I’m wrong?”

Nikolai looked away from the captain’s gaze as he felt the unexpected sting of tears.

“Nikolai,” the captain warned, crossing his arms, “look at me.”

Swallowing hard, Nikolai blinked back tears, his eyes reluctantly returning to meet the captain’s eyes. Upon seeing the disappointment on his captain’s face, all Nikolai wanted to do was bury himself in the ground and shrivel up until there was nothing left.

But he knew that wasn’t what the captain wanted, so swallowing his pride, his voice barely above a whisper, Nikolai uttered a strained, “Yes, sir. You’re correct.”

The captain nodded, his eyes searching Nikolai’s face for any further signs of resistance. Satisfied with what he saw, he decided to cut his reprimand short, “Since we’re on the same page, I suggest you head directly to the infirmary before lights out.”

Nikolai nodded. His eyes, downcast. “Yes, sir.”

As Nikolai turned to leave, Captain Gunther placed a firm hand on his shoulder, stopping him briefly before leaning down, his voice lowering to a whisper. "Once your recovery is over, you and I will have a discussion on respect. I don’t particularly appreciate it when my soldiers raise their voice at me. Understand?"

Nikolai’s eyes widened in shock at its implication, his mouth agape but he dared not protest. 

At least, not right now.

“Yes, sir,” he murmured, his words hardly more than a breath.  

—

Nikolai didn’t go to the infirmary right away.

As a matter of fact, he had no intentions of going there until the hour Captain Gunther said he’d be there slowly approached. What he did do, instead, was make his way to the empty shooting-range. It was his favorite spot when he wanted a break from everything. Consequences be damned. If he didn’t distract himself at this very moment, he can’t imagine what he’d do. 

Probably something reckless, and Nikolai had enough of being reckless for today. So going to the shooting-range, despite Captain Gunther’s suggestion, was a sort of compromise. Nikolai snorted at his own reasoning. Who was he kidding? He was clearly, once again, defying the captain’s commands—technically, his suggestion.

Though, he doubted that the captain viewed it as such.

For him, everything was a command.

Nikolai came to an abrupt halt mid-shoot as his pistol emitted a thin wisp of smoke.

Maybe he should head back? 

He glanced at the last two rounds of ammunition on the bench. The captain won’t be making his way over until another half hour. Nikolai wondered if he could squeeze in another round or two before then. 

Nikolai hesitated.

But as soon as he looked down at the pistol in his hand, the weight of it felt oddly comforting. He mulled over his decision for another second before making up his mind. Another round it is. He loaded another round into the chamber and began firing away at the target downrange. Each shot of gunfire reverberated through the air, leaving a trail of smoke in its wake.

As Nikolai took a moment to reload his pistol, he heard footsteps behind him. Turning around, Nikolai spotted a blonde boy with a scar running along his jawline. The boy was watching Nikolai intently as he made his way over from near the entrance. 

In his left hand was a pistol and a box of ammunition in his right.

Nikolai searched the boy’s uniform for the usual indicators marking which army he belonged to, only to find none. The absence of any insignia put Nikolai on edge. He had heard rumors about individuals who preferred to hide their allegiance for nefarious reasons. Sabotaging other armies being the main objective.

The boy stood to Nikolai right, his hand effortlessly loaded the magazine.

“If you relax your shoulder,” the boy suggested, “you can shoot better.”

The boy pulled the pistol back with a click and aimed down the range. His grip was steady and sure. He relaxed his shoulder and took a deep breath. Then, in one smooth motion, he squeezed the trigger and fired one after another until he emptied his chamber into the target ahead. 

Nikolai watched in astonishment. 

Each shot found its mark dead center at the bullseye.

When he finished, the boy turned to Nikolai. “See, simple.” 

The boy gestured for Nikolai to try. 

Nikolai hesitated, attempting to relax his shoulder as the boy suggested. But a sharp pain shot through his ribs, making him wince and instinctively cup his side.

The boy noticed Nikolai’s discomfort. “Oh? Are you injured?” he asked, out of observation rather than concern. 

Nikolai, unsure of how much to disclose to this complete stranger, decided to confirm the boy’s suspicion against his better judgment.

“But that doesn’t matter,” the boy replied impassively while he loaded another set of ammunition. “Injuries do affect shooting performance. You must work through the pain.” 

Nikolai stared in disbelief. 

Who was this boy? Sure, he’s a good shot, but he clearly didn’t know the first thing about empathy. 

“Thanks for the advice,” Nikolai muttered, his tone betraying his sarcasm. He couldn’t help but find the boy’s nonchalant attitude annoying. As the boy continued to shoot and reload his ammunition, Nikolai’s curiosity got the better of him.

“What’s your name, anyway?” Nikolai asked.

The boy shrugged.

“You’re not going to give me your name?”

He didn’t answer him, much less acknowledged his question. 

Irritated, Nikolai decided to try a different approach. “I’m Nikolai,” he offered, hoping to prompt a response from the boy.

“I know,” the boy responded without as much as a pause.

Nikolai frowned. Just then, he remembered what Afton told him earlier about how everyone knew about his beatdown this morning. Suddenly, his face flushed in embarrassment. Maybe the boy knew of him because of what happened today. Well, if that was the case, he’d love to disappear just about now.

Best to confront it head on than beat around the bush, Nikolai decided.

“So, you probably heard about what happened this morning, right?” Nikolai started.

The boy paused and glanced at Nikolai briefly before returning his gaze back to the target in front of him.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“You know exactly what I mean,” Nikolai pushed back.

The boy shrugged. “No, I don’t.”

“Fine,” he replied, “let’s pretend you don’t. Then how did you know I’m Nikolai?”

This time, the boy placed his pistol down on the bench in front of him and turned his full attention to Nikolai, who smirked in response, feeling slightly vindicated. He knew if he kept pestering the boy, he'd have no choice but to tell Nikolai what he wanted to know. 

Nikolai was persistent like that. 

“I am not allowed to tell you.”

Nikolai’s face fell. 

Was he serious?

“C’mon, it’s not a secret. I’m not going to be upset that you and everyone else knows who I am,” Nikolai pressed, trying to hide his growing annoyance.

The boy’s expression remained impassive. “My apologies. It's an order from my captain that I cannot reveal how I know who you are.”

Nikolai sighed. “Can you at least tell me what army you’re from?”

The boy thought about it for a second before responding with a curt, “No.”

“Well, thanks for the shooting tips, I guess,” Nikolai said, trying to salvage any semblance of politeness he could muster.

The boy nodded his head.

Checking the time, his heart sank. He was already five minutes overdue for his meeting with Captain Gunther in the infirmary. With a new profound sense of urgency, Nikolai pushed his pistol toward the boy.

“Hey, I have to go,” he stated abruptly. “Can you put the pistol back for me? Thanks.”

"Wait—before you go," the boy called after him, "you should consider transferring out of Poseidon while you can."

Although with no time to spare, Nikolai couldn’t help but probe further.

“Why’s that?”

The boy gave his usual shrug. “I cannot say.”

Nikolai sighed.

What a waste of time. 

Without another word to the boy, knowing full well by now what his answer would be, Nikolai hastily hurried off toward the direction of the infirmary. With each step he took, his mind raced with questions about what the boy meant. Even if he could transfer out of Poseidon, he’d need another commander to make an offer to trade one of their own soldiers for Nikolai. It wasn’t a rare occurrence, but it usually doesn’t happen unless the soldier was considered a liability or as some form of punishment. 

He heard about soldiers getting traded for as little as a loaf of bread. 

Besides, he was too green to get traded. No one would want him. Not to mention that Poseidon would take a loss on him. After all, when he got recruited into Poseidon, they paid a pretty penny for him by outbidding three other armies. 

Nikolai shook his head. 

There was no point dwelling on what the boy said, it wasn’t as if he was the most reliable source of information anyway. And besides, Nikolai had more pressing matters to worry about as he approached the corridor to the infirmary.

Then, he heard it, the sound of Captain Gunther’s voice drifting through the hallway. 

Nikolai’s bone chilled. 

The captain beat him to it. 

He was already there.

Fuck.

Tentatively, Nikolai approached the door, his hand hovering over the door handle. He almost considered making a run for it, but seriously, where could he even run to? Taking a deep breath, Nikolai braced himself as he pushed the door open and walked inside. 

Marcus was sitting on the bed to the right of Nikolai’s, and Captain Gunther was standing in front of him in the midst of a conversation. 

“Nikolai, good of you to finally join us,” Captain Gunther said, his eyes scanning Nikolai up and down. “Did you not change after your shower?”

His shower? Nikolai quickly stole a glance at Marcus who nodded as if signaling to Nikolai that this was their cue. Realizing Marcus was covering for him, his heart raced, knowing he couldn’t afford to mess this up for the both of them. 

“Oh, uh,” Nikolai stammered, feigning confusion. “I, uh, forgot my change of clothes. I thought it was quicker to come back and change my clothes after we’re done, sir.”

Captain Gunther didn’t press further. 

“Very well, Nikolai. Take a seat. It’s getting late, so I’ll be brief.” 

Nikolai nodded, taking a seat as Captain Gunther continued.

“As you’re aware, both of you are off the roster for all upcoming war games until you’re fully healed,” Captain Gunther began, his tone leaving no room for objection. “The only places you’re allowed to be at are your bunks, the infirmary, or your classes. That means no training, no exercises, and certainly, don’t even think about going anywhere near the shooting-range. Not even a peek.”

Nikolai shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He hoped Captain Gunther didn’t mean anything by not going near the shooting-range. The captain couldn’t have known about his little excursion, could he? Nikolai searched his face for any hints and came up empty. No, he couldn’t have known, otherwise, the captain wouldn’t be so… so calm. Right?

“Until then,” Captain Gunther continued, “you are to attend your classes, learn a thing or two, and remain away from the training grounds until further notice. I expect you both to act like disciplined soldiers, even within the confines of this room no matter how you feel about each other. Is that understood?”

“Yes, sir,” they answered in unison.

"Due to the severity of your injuries and the consequences you've already faced, I've decided not to administer a second punishment," Captain Gunther declared firmly. "Consider this a one-time reprieve. But make no mistake, I won't tolerate any further insubordination. This is your warning—don't make it a habit.” 

“Thank you, sir. This won’t happen again,” Marcus responded gratefully. Nikolai glanced at Marcus, surprised by his demeanor, a far cry from the boy who tormented him in the washroom.

On the other hand, Nikolai merely offered a nod, as a quiet “Yes, sir” escaped his lips.

What’s the point?

He knew that the captain’s generosity didn’t extend to his display of disrespect earlier, and he wasn’t going to ask him with Marcus in the room.

After Captain Gunther left the infirmary, Nikolai turned to find Marcus already facing the wall, his back to Nikolai. He didn’t know what to make of Marcus. He debated for a good minute between thanking Marcus for intervening on his behalf, or just leaving it as it is. 

But before Nikolai could decide, Marcus spoke up, his back still to Nikolai.

“Why didn’t you say that you were already punished by Captain Gunther after the War Game yesterday?” Marcus accused, an edge to his voice. “If you did, it would’ve saved us the trouble of beating your ass ourselves.”

Nikolai blinked.  “What?”

“Don’t act like you’re above it,” he retorted. “What do you think Captain Gunther meant by not administering a second punishment?” 

Nikolai remained silent as Marcus’s words sank in. 

And then, it suddenly hit him. 

“I… well… yeah. He did.” Nikolai’s voice faltering as he struggled to admit to it. It wasn’t as if his ass beating by the captain was a secret, but it just never occurred to Nikolai that it mattered, what the captain did or didn’t do. 

Marcus let out a heavy sigh as he turned to face Nikolai. 

“You didn’t realize? Or you didn’t want to admit it?” he shot back, his eyes narrowing in suspicion before turning back around to the wall. “I forgot that you’re still a greenie. As far as captains go, Gunther is a saint. Don’t get me wrong, you’d never want to cross him, but compared to other armies out there, Gunther is lenient. When I was in Ares, insubordination meant getting stripped naked, strapped to a post, and whipped until you’re raw in front of the entire army.” 

Nikolai shuddered. He had no idea. “That’s awful.” 

“Yes, it was.” 

Nikolai stared at his back, wondering if Marcus was speaking from personal experience. 

“Either go to sleep or quit staring at me, greenie.”

Embarrassed, Nikolai looked away for a moment before returning his attention back to the other boy, his curiosity getting the better of him. “Was it you?”

“Was it me, what?”

“The one strapped to the post.”

Marcus didn’t answer him right away and Nikolai almost thought Marcus dozed off to sleep, until he spoke up softly, “No, it was Afton.” 

Nikolai stiffened. 

Afton—loyal, reliable Afton, the only person that made Nikolai give a damn in this place—had endured such a barbaric punishment? Of all people? How could that be? Unexpected anger coiled within Nikolai like a serpent as he struggled to find the words to express his disbelief.

“He’s fine now, if that’s what you’re wondering,” Marcus said. “The guy’s a lot stronger than he looks, a lot stronger than me, in fact.” 

Nikolai snickered, his anger simmering for a second. “I’m not surprised, you’re not as strong as you look. Just three punches?”

Marcus chuckled, catching Nikolai by surprise. He had expected Marcus to take the bait. 

“Come back to me when you’re still standing after taking one punch from Commander Dallas, and then we’ll talk.” Marcus yawned. “Meanwhile, shut your trap so I can catch some shut eye.” 

Nikolai's lip gave way to a slight smile as the tension between them dwindled by the second. Of course, Marcus was still his least favorite person here. However, despite their differences, he wasn’t all that bad. 

But still, Nikolai couldn’t shake the images of Afton being strung up and subjected to such cruelty.

Maybe he should be nicer to him. 

Yeah, that’s a start. 

For once, a sense of peace settled over Nikolai as he rose from his bed and crossed the room to switch off the light. The room enveloped in darkness as the deep, steady breathing of Marcus replaced the silence of the room. Returning to his bed, Nikolai shook off his shirt and climbed beneath the covers, finally letting the exhaustion of the day steal him away.

Chapter Text

Nikolai lay on his bed staring at the metal bars of the top bunk above him. Since he was released from the infirmary two days ago, he barely slept more than five hours a night. But the lights would go off all the same and he’d be left with the quiet rustle of sleep and his thoughts. 

Tonight was no different. 

He replayed what that boy from the shooting range had said, over and over, until he grew annoyed, frustrated, and paranoid. Clearly, he knew something that Nikolai didn’t. There were times when Nikolai tried to search for any clues pertaining to the boy’s identity. But it was difficult trying to dig up anything when Nikolai’s only source of information had been Afton, who had been giving him the cold shoulder ever since what happened to Marcus.

Honestly, it wasn’t just Afton, it was everyone. 

The only ones who seemed slightly interested in how he was doing were other soldiers from other armies in his lecture hall. But he knew that their curiosity was solely driven in search for cracks in Poseidon’s foundation. A chance to be the first person to hear about how Gunther’s platoon has fallen from grace. He could see it in their eyes, this almost vulturous glee. He knew to ignore it and he had, but he couldn’t help wondering if they could see right through him.

Then there was Marcus. 

He was still recovering in the infirmary much to his own annoyance. Who knew the guy was so passionate about getting back to training. If Marcus was that eager, why was he so pissy about Captain Gunther punishing them with morning training? Seems counterproductive—well, it was true that it was Nikolai's fault that they were punished in the first place—so he gets Marcus’s frustration.

He didn’t get what the big deal was before, but after what happened to him and then to Marcus, he does now. There was no room for disobedience, lest someone has to pay for it, one way or another. Sometimes it was just difficult for Nikolai to admit his own responsibility, given that the decisions he made were well-intended for the crappy situation he was put in. Not to mention that for Nikolai, to admit fault was to confront the fact that the things they were saying about him were true. That he was a selfish, self-absorbed person who only cared about himself. That someone as weak-willed as he does not belong here, where everyone just knew exactly where they belonged.

Except him. 

Maybe he should leave Poseidon. 

Nikolai sighed.

Again, he reached the same conclusion he did last night and the night before.

All he was sure of was that no matter what that boy had said, there was nowhere else he could go. He was staying right here, whether he wanted to or not. If no one wanted anything to do with him, then so be it. 

Nikolai was the last one to leave the barracks when the lights came on. Usually, Afton would wait for him by the door so they could walk together to class. But this morning, Afton told him to go ahead because he had to run some errands before class. Nikolai briefly wondered if it was an excuse on Afton's part to get away from him, to make it seem like they had naturally drifted apart. It hurt him, the thought of Afton not wanting to be friends anymore. Certainly, Afton would tell him if he felt that way, Nikolai hoped. 

So he made his way mindlessly through the corridor to his classes. The first time he walked the halls since the incident, the corridor grew quiet until everyone stopped what they were doing and openly stared at him when they recognized his name on his uniform below the Poseidon insignia. By the time he got to his first class, a couple of boys from other armies would stop by the door to steal quick glances at him. Nikolai pretended not to notice, and eventually, they lost interest when they realized their leers and jeers elicited no reaction from him.

Today the stares were a lot better. 

It seemed that most were already engrossed in the next bit of gossip, and Nikolai could relax enough to look around the hall. Since he got to Vanguard two months ago, he had only attended classes a handful of times. Whenever a new recruit entered the school, the army they belong to takes over the recruit’s entire curriculum. Some armies preferred their soldiers to undergo intensive training during the first few months to orient them to army-specific maneuvers and formations, while others preferred them to attend certain classes for specialized training. 

The school’s administrators here could careless either way. It was not too often they get involved. Their job was to make sure the pecking order was thriving and enforced. Whatever the commanders wanted from their soldiers, they received. No questions asked. From what Nikolai could gather so far, the top dogs at Vanguard were the armies with the highest win-loss ratio, and with it, prestige and funds for better equipment, food, and recruits. 

Poseidon was third in the rankings out of twenty-four armies. Artemis was second, and Hades was first. Nikolai didn’t know too much about Artemis or Hades. All he knew was that they didn’t participate in this year’s recruitment period. He also heard that they prefer to recruit or bid for veterans from other armies rather than taking a gamble on a greenie. So when Nikolai was the only one recruited for an army in the top three, he caused quite a stir. Though, after everything that happened, he wasn’t sure if Poseidon would take a gamble like that ever again.

When Nikolai nearly reached the door to his first class, someone came up behind him and tapped him on his shoulder. 

“You have a second?” 

Turning around, Nikolai was surprised to see who it was. 

“Hey, Dax,” Nikolai said. “You need something?”

Dax’s red hair bounced as he nodded his head toward the nearly empty hallway. “Yeah, come here for a second.”

Nikolai followed him down the hall to a corner with fewer passersby. 

“So, why did you do it?”

Nikolai, taken aback, stared blankly at Dax. “What do you mean?”

Dax rolled his eyes and sighed. “You know what I mean, don’t play dumb. Why did you go in the washroom when I clearly warned you not to.”

Nikolai could feel his throat getting tighter as Dax stared at him, waiting for him to respond. The longer he hesitated, the more nervous he became. He didn’t expect Dax to confront him like this.

“I had my reasons.” 

Not buying it for a second, Dax scoffed. “Do tell, what reasons besides being an absolute moron?”

Nikolai stared at the floor, unable to meet his gaze. Here he was, coming to acceptance that nobody wanted to associate with him only for Dax to come out of left field, asking him things he didn’t want to think about. Fuck, he couldn’t catch a break, could he?

“Look, Dax, I had my reasons—”

“Reasons? That’s bullshit, and you know it. I told you to go to class, but what did you do instead? The dumbest thing you could—you went in there!”

Nikolai groaned. “I heard you, okay? I knew that if I didn’t go in there, they could’ve gotten me at another time when I wasn’t as prepared, so you did help me out and I appreciate it—” 

“Save it, Nikolai. I didn’t warned you as an encouragement to go inside, but to stay the fuck away, so don’t you go putting this on me.”

“Look, I’m not putting this on you, Dax,” Nikolai’s voice wavering by the second.

Dax opened his mouth to say something, but Nikolai quickly interjected, “—I just, I’m just trying to say that, I’m sorry. Okay?”

Dax closed his mouth, looking surprised by Nikolai's sudden apology.

“You’re right, I was an absolute moron,” Nikolai said. Dax gave him a pointed look as if to say damn right he was an idiot. “I know I messed up and I shouldn’t have walked in there knowing what was on the other side.”

“And yet, you did.”

Nikolai winced at Dax’s remark. “Y-yeah, I did. I just thought it was better to get it over with.”

Dax crossed his arms, his expression skeptical. “Get it over with?”

“Yeah.” Nikolai shrugged. “Like I said, I knew they were going to go after me one way or another, so I made the decision to walk in there. Get it over with.”

Dax regarded Nikolai for a moment before his face softened. “I know Marcus. He wouldn’t have left you alone. The guy’s like a crocodile. Once he locks you in his jaws, he won’t let go.” Quickly, Dax added, “That doesn’t mean you should’ve done what you did.”

Nikolai nodded. “Yeah, I think I get that by now. With everyone ignoring me.”

Dax chuckled. “You think they’re ignoring you because of what happened to Marcus?”

Confused, Nikolai asked, “Well, yeah?”

Dax shook his head. “They’re not upset about what happened to Marcus, the guy had it coming for miles. He’s been a menace since he joined. They’re not ignoring you because Marcus got punished, they’re ignoring you because they’re afraid of you.” 

Dumbfounded, Nikolai barely managed to utter, “What?”

“You heard me.” Dax looked amused. “They’re afraid of you. It’s not often a greenie can hold off seven guys from Captain Gunther’s platoon at once, muchless come out unscathed.”

“Unscathed?” Did Dax forget how long he spent in the infirmary?

“A broken rib and nose is pretty unscathed to me. I know you’re a bit slow, so let me spell it out for you. Those guys had years of training before you got here.” 

“Did you forget that I passed out?”

Dax snickered. “But did you die?”

“No.”

“Well, there you go. Unscathed.”

“Oh.” A smile began playing at the corner of Nikolai’s lips. He didn’t expect to learn this bit of information. For some reason, knowing that they were ignoring him because they were afraid of him felt a whole lot better than believing that they despise him.

“Don’t let it get to your head, now,” Dax said. “You still have a lot to learn. For one, stand down when you’re told.” 

Nikolai rolled his eyes. “You don’t have to tell me twice, Gunther already made sure to drum that into my head.” And my ass. 

Dax nodded approvingly. “You mean Captain Gunther?”

Nikolai gulped, realizing his mistake. “Yes, Captain Gunther,” he corrected himself. “Afton calls the captain by Gunther so often I almost caught on.” 

“Right.” Dax raised an eyebrow, unconvinced but let it go anyway. Who knew Dax was such a stickler for formalities. Nikolai made sure to note it down and stow it away in his brain. 

“Speaking of Captain Gunther, I expect you to tell him what you did.”

Nikolai froze. “Tell him what?”

“That you were an idiot and walked in there by yourself, knowing that I warned you.”

All blood drained from Nikolai’s face. “But why would I need to tell him that? He never told me to stay away from the washroom—it was your suggestion I disregarded, so why would I need to report something like that to him, of all people?”

Nikolai was getting frustrated now. What gave Dax the belief that he could command Nikolai around like this? Sure, the guy was his senior, but he wasn’t his captain. 

“Because, Nikolai,” Dax said firmly. “Captain Gunther is responsible for you, so I doubt he’d be all that happy when he finds out how stupid you are, one way or another. In his eyes, this would be considered withholding information and trust me—you don’t want to do that.” 

Then, Dax leaned in closer and whispered in Nikolai's ear as if to avoid others from hearing his next few words. “As for me, knowing what Captain Gunther would do, I know he’d really make sure you learn how to think before you act. For that reason alone, I’d tell him myself what you did if you rather not come clean. If it makes it any easier for you, just consider your confession as a favor to me for warning you about Marcus.”

Nikolai could hear his heart pounding in his ears as Dax words sank in. The thought of confessing to Captain Gunther made his stomach churn with anxiety. There was no way he could do it. 

No way in hell. 

How could Dax ask that of him?

Dax straightened back up, his words cutting through Nikolai's turmoil. “I’ll give you until the end of today to tell him, just know that he’ll be more lenient if he hears it from you. He especially hates when his own soldiers lack the dignity to take accountability for their actions.” 

Nikolai remained silent, his jaw clenched, his mind spinning. Dax's attempt at reassurance fell flat. Eventually, Dax realized Nikolai wasn’t going to respond to him, so he turned on his heel, leaving Nikolai to stew in his own dilemmas. Even if Dax stayed around to hear Nikolai’s answer to his request, he wouldn’t get much out of him anyway since Nikolai was still too shocked to speak. 

By the time Nikolai felt like he could breathe again, he leaned against the wall, his legs feeling as though they could crumble beneath him at any moment. He squeezed his eyes shut as he clenched his right fist and slammed it down on the wall behind. 

“Fuck,” he muttered. 

Whether he confessed or not, Captain Gunther would know by the end of today. And the longer he waited, the worse it would be. But the thought of facing the captain, knowing that he had already told Nikolai that they’d be having another conversation about his disrespect earlier this week, made it all the harder for Nikolai to voluntarily walk to his captain’s quarters and come clean.

Taking a deep breath, Nikolai pushed himself off the wall and made his way to his next class. At this point, he couldn’t risk missing class and extending the laundry list of his misdeeds. Might as well take it hour by hour. Hopefully, by then, he would’ve mustered enough courage to see Captain Gunther before Dax beat him to it.

Just as he turned the corner to his class, a crowd of older boys were surrounding another boy. Nikolai looked at their uniforms and noticed a mix of soldiers from Hermes, Athena, Apollo, and a couple others he couldn’t make out from where he stood. There had to be at least eight or ten of them surrounding a smaller boy within the crowd. 

If it was any other day, Nikolai would’ve walked right over to see what the commotion was. But after the bomb Dax dropped on him, he thought it was best to mind his own business and head to class. 

As he prepared to ignore the commotion, a voice sliced through the crowd, freezing him in his tracks. It couldn't be. Turning around, Nikolai tentatively walked over. 

Then he heard the voice again.

Suddenly, his feet moved on their accord, hoping that he was wrong—that it doesn’t belong to the one person he never wanted to see ever again.

He was sprinting now, hands desperately pushing through the crowd as he got closer to that voice— his voice. Once he reached the front of the crowd, Nikolai felt the air knocked out of him. In the middle of the crowd, stood a strawberry blonde boy with his hair neatly combed back. 

It was him. 

It was Cassian. 

His best friend. His first love. And the last person he wanted to see.

A look of surprise spread across Cassian’s features as he caught sight of Nikolai. Time seemed to freeze as they locked eyes, as a flood of emotions and memories consumed Nikolai like wildfire.

Juno, Cassian, and Nikolai.

His childhood friends.

He first met them when he was sent to a state-run orphanage in another province after his parents’ execution. 

There, they did everything together.

They would break into one of those rundown, government-sanctioned food storages on the outskirts of their section, squeezing beneath the metal sheath in the dead of night. Their arms would be full of sweet potatoes and carrots—a whole lot of them—while moonlight poured down on their faces and their bare feet pounded away on the dirt ground. Then, they’d sit together beneath the big oak tree by the orphanage where Nikolai grew up and share their prizes equally among themselves. 

Well, not always. 

Juno always got an extra or two because she had two younger brothers and sisters and no one else at home important enough to care. Cassian never wanted any because his parents were officials who never left him wanting. So, most of the time, the food was shared between Juno and him, and Cassian would, without fail, take a bite out of a carrot and call it his consolation prize. His lopsided smile was the reassurance needed for Nikolai and Juno to dig in and take as much as they’d like. And just like that, they made a home within each other out of rough edges and tender touches beneath the big, beautiful night sky.

A place forever frozen in time. 

They were inseparable.

“Like the three musketeers, we’re always going to be together,” Cassian would say and every single time, Nikolai would snort in response while Juno threw her head back in laughter. 

“Nobody knows who they are, Cas,” Nikolai pointed out for the third time that day. “What the hell is a musketeer anyway?”

Cassian would then close the book shut and hold it close to his chest. His face would be all scrunched up, as if it was the first time that day Nikolai teased him about his book by an author nobody knew. And of course, Nikolai, with his lips tucked behind a subtle smile, couldn’t help stealing glances in Cassian’s direction. He always thought Cas looked cute when he was annoyed, the way his eyebrows knitted together, his lower lip curving upward like a crescent moon rising in the night sky, casting a soft glow of frustration that somehow made him even more endearing.

But on this particular day, they were sitting by the river with their feet dangling over the edge, talking about everything and nothing at all. Cassian was going on and on about the Three Musketeers and all the adventures they’d go on. How they saved countless lives and their country. But all that resonated with Nikolai was the loyalty they owed each other through thick and thin, wondering if they, too, would be as close when life inevitably takes its toll. As the sunlight danced on the water's surface and a gentle breeze rustled through the trees, they found solace in each other's company as their laughter blended with the water beneath.

That is, until Nikolai, mid-stretch, inadvertently sent Cassian’s book into the raging river. When he turned around and saw the devastation across Cassian's face, Nikolai immediately dived into the river without a second thought.

He knew what that book meant to Cassian.

As he plunged into the crisp water, all Nikolai could hear before the roar of the waves engulfed him were the cries of Cassian and Juno, pleading for him to get out of the water, that Cassian didn’t need the book, he just needed him.

“... so please—PLEASE, Nikolai, get out of the river—forget the stupid book, it doesn’t matter, please, just get out of the water—”

But Nikolai didn’t care. 

He didn’t have much going for him. 

Juno had her siblings. Cassian had his family. All Nikolai had was them, so how could he not?

In his heart, that stupid, old book meant everything to him because Cassian’s happiness meant everything to him. 

So he swam and swam until he couldn’t feel his arms. And then he swam some more until his lungs burned from the inside out as his vision blurred, the book a driftwood dancing at the edge of his peripheral.

Almost there. 

His arm reached out, his fingertips barely brushing against the spine of the book as his body fought to keep upright as the current fought in tandem to drag him below. 

Come on, he remembered thinking to himself. Just a little bit more.

Just as he grabbed the book, the current won out and devoured him whole as it drowned him beneath its cold caress.

When he woke, all he remembered was Cassian cradling his face into his chest, while Juno with her tear-stained cheeks, clung to his hand until they knuckled white. As Nikolai lay there paralyzed beneath the downpour of emotions he couldn’t recognize, he wondered why they were sobbing into him as if something horrible had happened. Did he let Cassian down after all? Was today the day he ruined things between them? The fear of losing their friendship twisted in him like a hot poker stick. Of course, he had to go ruin the one good thing he had in his life. Couldn’t he ever do anything right?

If only… if only he was good enough—then none of this would’ve happened.

“Nikolai!” Cassian screamed. Nikolai could feel Cassian’s wet cheeks against his own. “Wake up, you dummy! I told you—forget the book—so don’t do this to me… you can’t…you can’t do this—you said, friends forever… so w-why are you doing this to me—’

Nikolai froze as the realization hit him like a tidal wave.

Certainly, it wasn’t because of him, right? That they weren’t crying because… because they cared about him? Him, of all people?

“Nikolai, please,” Juno whispered, her voice cracking. “We need you. I need you.”

He blinked, trying to process their words as Cassian's arms tightened around him, and Juno’s grip on his hand grew even firmer. The warmth of their touch and the desperation in their voices shattered the wall of self-doubt Nikolai had tirelessly built brick by brick. Suddenly, Nikolai's vision blurred with tears, but this time, it wasn't from pain or fear. It was from the overwhelming realization that, despite everything, he was loved. He was valued. His friends truly cared about him, more than he ever believed possible.

With a shuddering breath, Nikolai finally let himself feel it all—the love, the fear, the relief. He wasn't alone. He never was. And for the first time in what felt like forever, he allowed himself to believe that maybe, just maybe, he was enough to be loved.

And they did. 

They loved him. 

And he loved them in turn.

Love.

Nikolai scoffed.

He knew of love, once. 

The love his parents had for him when they held him in their embrace, their hands gently running through his hair as they asked him to be brave, because everything was going to be okay. 

Love.

He saw it in their eyes, love so petrifying that it filled them with terror when they hid him beneath the kitchen table before they were dragged by their neck like chicken to slaughter.

Love.

It was there when he watched their lifeless eyes fade into nothingness. 

Love was always there. 

But Nikolai knew that love wasn’t enough.

It had never been enough.

Because if it were enough, his brother wouldn't have brought death machines to their door.

Because where love existed, loss followed. 

And when the time came for Nikolai to choose between this love they had for him and the love his parents had died for, he had to choose the latter—because after all, was his pursuit of vengeance not borne out of love, too?

So when his eyes met Cassian’s ocean green, he was the last person Nikolai wanted to see.

Chapter Text

For as long as he could remember, Nikolai would watch Cassian for as long as he dared. His eyes would trail along each line etched across Cassian’s face like an escape from his waking nightmares.

To Nikolai, Cassian was his North Star.

But to Cassian, Nikolai was his whole world.

And so when Nikolai set it all ablaze, he knew there was no turning back.

There was no way back.

Nikolai made his choice.

And from the look on Cassian’s face, Nikolai could tell that he made his. That there was nothing left between them. He could see it in the way Cassian’s eyes could see right through him. Eyes that could kill. Immediately, Nikolai averted his gaze, his stomach lurched. Bile clawing at his throat. Nikolai wanted to leave. But his legs wouldn’t budge. They were like chains and he was the prisoner.

This was not supposed to happen.

Cassian, here?

It was impossible,

He made sure of it.

And yet, standing right before him, Cassian stood tall. He stood proud. Different. Almost as if he wanted Nikolai to know that despite what Nikolai did, he was here, and there was nothing Nikolai could do about it. Not a single thing.

Just as Nikolai forced his legs to take a step back, the crowd around him quieted. The atmosphere began to shift as eyes flickered toward his direction. Whispers tapered off as low chuckles and pointed comments grew in unison. This was bad. He managed to avoid their attention so far—there was no reason for him to stand out now. But it was already too late. With him front and center, and the way they started grinning like feral dogs, they had recognized him. The longer he stayed, the more precarious his situation became. He had to get out of there.

As he was about to turn on his heel and sneak out of the crowd, someone yelled out, “Hey, isn’t that the kid from Poseidon?”

Nikolai stopped in his tracks, his ears perked. Mouth shut. No reason to fan the flames.

“Oh yeah, that’s him.”

“The Nikolai kid?”

“Yeah, the one from the washroom.”

“Huh, thought he would be bigger,” another snickered.

“Maybe someone should tie a bell around him, so we know when he's coming.”

Nikolai rolled his eyes as the comment elicited a couple chuckles from the crowd.

“Poseidon sure knows how to pick them.”

“If you ask me, Poseidon's standards have taken a nosedive recently.”

“—well, I’m surprised they let him out without a babysitter after what happened.” A boy with short black hair stepped out from the crowd. His face, fox-like. The Apollo's insignia on his uniform, a pencil twirled in between his fingers. “You think he’d need help finding his way around?”

“Yeah, the way to the washroom,” another boy answered.

The black-haired boy snickered. “Oi, I know where it is, right between my legs. You think he could walk between them without touching my balls?”

“—cause you got none, Gus, that’s why,” somebody answered.

“At least mine dropped,” he yelled back before turning back to Nikolai. “Did yours drop yet, little Niko?”

That certainly earned a laugh from the crowd. Nikolai gritted his teeth. His fists clenched at his side. The other boy took noticed and smirked. Clearly satisfied that he had gotten a reaction out of Nikolai. But Nikolai could tell it wasn’t enough. He wanted more. He wanted a reenactment.

“You mute still, cabrão?” the black-haired boy asked. “Lost your tongue in the shitter? Or did Marcus rip it out for ya?”

The boy was closer now. Within arm's reach. But he was bigger than Nikolai, his reach would be better, stronger. No, no. He wouldn’t start anything so publicly, Nikolai thought. Rivalries or not, all armies agreed on certain principles that no soldier would dare to breach. The first, and perhaps most important, rule Nikolai learned during his first week at Vanguard was to never start public fights with soldiers from other armies.

The consequences for doing so? Nikolai shivered. He rather not think about it.

But with the way the other boy taunted Nikolai, he almost wondered if the rules had contingency in place for instances involving self-defense. Because underneath the other boy’s pompous smile was the twitch of his eye as he made the pencil in between his fingers dance. Nikolai eyed the pencil cautiously. He was getting impatient and so was the crowd. Of course, Nikolai wasn’t oblivious. He knew they were goading him. Desperate to see if he was everything and nothing at all like the rumors have said.

Nikolai dropped his head and chuckled. They thought him easy, quick to fuse.

“What’s so funny?” the other boy asked, inching closer.

Nikolai looked up from the floor and flashed him a grin. Who knew his presence alone was enough to rile them up? The more they taunted him, the more he relished in their failed attempts at getting a reaction out of him.

The boy opened his mouth to say something but stopped and closed it just as quickly. His gaze glossed over Nikolai as uncertainty flitted across his face. Just then, a hand clasped firmly on Nikolai’s right shoulder, startling him. Turning around, Nikolai was surprised to find Afton appearing right beside him.

"Hey there, sunshine. I was just looking for you," Afton greeted Nikolai with his signature lopsided smirk. Then, as if noticing the other boy for the first time, he added, "Oh, hey there, Gustavo."

Afton looked around and let out a low whistle, as though he had only now become aware of the crowd. Oh, Afton and his theatrics. “What a turn out. What’s going on here?" Afton asked, his tone light but carrying an unmistakable edge that wasn’t lost on the black-haired boy, who unconsciously took a step back. That stupid grin still on his face.

“Oi Afton, it depends on who you’re asking,” the boy chuckled, his face contouring like a hyena. “You see, it seems that little Niko here got a little lost, so I figured I’d point him in the right direction.”

“Oh, you were? How kind. He is new, can’t blame him,” Afton said as he casually draped his arm around Nikolai’s shoulders, who stiffened underneath Afton’s touch as he drew Nikolai in closer. “Place is a labyrinth. You’d think after two months, you’d get the hang of it. Guess the architects didn’t have the smarts to organize the halls in cardinal directions rather than alphabetically.” He tightened his grip on Nikolai’s shoulder. Grounding him. “But hey, we’ve all been there, right?”

The boy didn’t respond to Afton’s deflection, instead, he gave a low chuckle with his hand shoved into his pocket, the other still twirling the pencil between his fingers. Nikolai noticed it, too, the shift in his demeanor, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth as if he were laughing at a private joke only he understood.

“What’s with you?” Afton asked.

“I should be asking you that,” the boy responded with a snickered, nodding toward Nikolai. “Since when were you all buddy-buddy with greenies? I thought you were allergic to them until they learned how to walk.”

“What? That’s totally not me,” Afton responded with one hand over his chest as if genuinely upset. “I have you know, who I was a month ago is not who I am today. And besides, have you seen him?” Afton pulled Nikolai closer, resting his chin atop Nikolai's head, much to Nikolai's annoyance. Nikolai couldn't help but wonder if Afton's sudden act of affection was just for show. After all, he had spent so long ignoring him this week—why the sudden change of heart?

“Cute as a button, but I wouldn’t come any closer if I were you, he’s a lot more bite than bark,” Afton warned playfully, his eyes gleaming with mischief. Nikolai could tell that Afton was enjoying the exchange far more than he let on. Great. Now he was Afton’s little show puppy. Just fantastic.

“More bite than bark, huh? Maybe consider putting a muzzle on him then, just to be safe,” the boy snorted.

A muzzle. Really?

Just as Nikolai opened his mouth to say something, Afton gave Nikolai's shoulder a sharp squeeze. A warning.

“A muzzle? Nah, he only bites the ones who can’t keep their mouth shut and their hands off their little tiny pencil,” Afton quipped, eyeing the other boy's pencil with a smirk. “Right, Nikolai?”

Afton's retort left the other boy red-faced as the crowd laughed. Seizing the moment, Afton quickly changed the topic. “So, what’s all of this gathering for? Just to help my little sunshine out of the goodness of your heart, or is there something else I missed?” He glanced around with exaggerated curiosity, his grip on Nikolai’s shoulder easing a bit.

The boy grinned, eager to regain control of the conversation. “Matter of fact, we were just talking to—” He turned to gesture towards Cassian, but his words trailed off as his eyes searched the area. The space where Cassian stood just moments ago was now empty as the crowd followed suit and started looking around.

“He was just here,” the boy muttered, irritation creeping into his voice.

“Who?” Afton brows arched.

“You missed him.” His head cocked toward where Cassian was standing earlier. “He was just here, the new greenie from Hades.”

“Huh, that’s not right,” Afton tilted his head to the side, confused. “I thought Hades didn’t recruit anyone this season.”

The boy snorted, clearly pleased to know something Afton didn’t. Nikolai resisted the urge to groan in frustration. God, how does Afton manage to keep his cool with someone as infuriating as this guy?

“Oi, they didn’t recruit him. He’s a direct transfer, didn’t you hear? Or does news not reach the bottom of the ocean?”

Afton’s eyes narrowed, ignoring the boy’s poor attempt at condescension. “Direct transfer? That’s interesting.”

“Obviously. Why do you think we’re here for?”

“As unofficial tour guides?” Afton shrugged, looking around. “Maybe you ought to bring in a few more, so with your brains combined, you don't end up leading each other in circles."

“Oi, shut it, Afton. God almighty, just because you’re in Poseidon, you think you’re— "

“—yeah, yeah, yeah, think I’m King of the world, I got the message, so what’s his name?” Afton interjected impatiently, his hand waving dismissively in the air.

But before the boy could respond, Nikolai cut in.

“Cassian.” His name left a bitter taste on the tip of Nikolai’s tongue. “His name’s Cassian.”

The other boy turned to Nikolai, annoyed that Nikolai stole his thunder. “Wait a minute, how do you know his—”

Nikolai didn’t stick around for the rest of the interrogation.

The reminder of Cassian, mixed with the emotions he was desperately trying to bottle in, was enough to push him over the edge. With a sharp turn, he shoved off Afton’s arm and pushed his way through the crowd, not caring about the glares or sneers that followed or Afton calling after him. He hadn’t taken more than a couple of steps out of the crowd before Afton caught up, grabbing Nikolai’s arm and jerking him to a stop.

“Hey, Nikolai,” Afton called out. Nikolai stood rigid, his emotions a whirlwind. “Hey, what’s wrong, sunshine—are you alright?”

Nikolai gritted his teeth. Afton was concerned. He was always concerned. But where was this concern of his when Nikolai needed it the most? When the walls closed in and all Nikolai wanted was for Afton to even glance in his direction? Now, suddenly, here he was, acting like he'd been there all along. But who cares. He was done with the conversation, done with the taunts, the jabs, the feigned concern, and especially—he was done with holding himself back.

So why couldn’t Afton see that and just—

“Fuck off,” Nikolai spat, shoving Afton aside. He didn’t wait for a response, didn’t pause to see the hurt or surprise on Afton’s face. Instead, he ran without so much as a glance back, because he knew that if he stayed any longer, he wouldn’t be able to keep himself together.

And so he did what he has always done best, he ran.

He needed to get away, to find somewhere he could breathe again, because right now, his heart was pounding at a thousand miles per hour, and all he wanted was to hide somewhere until the memories locked themselves away again—but how could they?

Cassian was here and he was in free fall.

So he ran.

Through one corridor to the next.

He ran until his breath raged in his chest as the faces of those he passed by blurred into insignificance and the world shrank to nothing more than the sound of his heartbeat thundering in his ears. He ran until his legs numbed and his lungs burned with each gasping breath. Yet, he kept going.

He didn’t stop until he reached the edge of the world—a dimly lit, rarely used storeroom, abandoned to spiders and dust. He pushed through the door, the metal groaning in protest, and let it slam shut behind him. Kicking aside some empty boxes, Nikolai made room before he leaned back against the cold, hard wall and slid down to the ground, his knees pulled to his chest as his arms wrapped around himself.

Finally—in the muffled silence, no one could hear him shattering into a million pieces. The despair, the regret, the lost love—each piece a result of his own making, left him with nothing but memories that refused to die. And one by one, these memories dug themselves out from the coffins Nikolai had buried when he left Cassian to die alone underneath the dead of night. His eyes wide open. Beautiful ocean green. Begging Nikolai to stay, to help him, to save him—because after all, they were friends, right? Through thick and thin, from sunrise to sunset, and until the end of time. Friends, forever. So why did he do it? Why did he abandon Cassian when all Nikolai ever wanted was to be by his side?

Why?

Because… Because Cassian was everything Nikolai was not. For that, Nikolai hated him. Every single inch of him. From the way his tousled hair would capture all the golden hues of the warm summer air, to the subtle smile he’d wear behind old, tattered books with such contentment that Nikolai could only dream of—he hated it all. He hated Cassian’s inherent goodness. His ability to believe in Nikolai when no one else could.

And above all else, Nikolai hated that he still cared.

That he was happy to see Cassian.

That he missed him, so, so, much.

That he wanted to run into his arms and say that he was sorry. That he didn’t mean to—that he...well. No. That’s a lie. Nikolai meant it. To leave him there by himself, to bleed out, his fate left to God. But to admit that was to shatter all of his reasons for living, for being, for turning his back, for upholding what he owed his family—because when it mattered most, Nikolai chose himself and left the only person who ever loved him to die.

To Cassian, I am a monster.

Just like my brother.

Just like Mikhail.

“I’m sorry, Cassian,” Nikolai gasped between sobs, as the weight of his actions tore right through him. “I’m so, so, sorry.”

Time dissolved into nothingness as Nikolai lost himself in his grief in this far corner of the world. How long he had remained there didn’t matter to him. Then suddenly, as he tried to compose himself in the dim light of the storeroom to no avail, the door gently creaked open.

There, standing in the doorway, was Captain Gunther.

Nikolai’s heart dropped. His breath caught in his throat. Hastily, Nikolai scrambled to his feet, his hands frantically wiping at the tears that won't stop coming. His legs wobbled beneath him, threatening to buckle after too long on the hard floor. No, not like this. He couldn’t be seen like this—all snot and tears. Pathetic. Weak. But the more he tried to smear away the tears, the more they kept streaming down his face. Stop, stop. Why won’t they stop?

He didn’t hear Captain Gunther stepping into the storeroom nor the soft click of the door closing behind him. Nikolai’s vision blurred, his throat hoarse. Eyes downcast. Wishing to be anywhere else but here. The captain an audience to his misery.

“Nikolai?”

“I… I’m fine,” Nikolai managed to mumble. “I just… sorry, I-I needed…” But as Captain Gunther stepped closer, Nikolai froze, his body tensing, eyes shut tight, bracing for a reprimand or worse. Yet, Nikolai felt a hand weaving its way gently through his hair.

“No,” Nikolai protested, attempting to push away from his touch, to distance himself from any semblance of comfort. He didn’t deserve it, not after everything he did. But it was already too late. The captain had quickly pulled him into his embrace, his arm wrapped around Nikolai. Desperately, Nikolai tried to push against the captain’s chest, but the captain’s hold was firm, unyielding—unshakable.

“C’mere,” Captain Gunther whispered, his voice soft. Gentle. “Things haven’t been easy for you, have they?”

And just like that, something inside Nikolai crumbled and he found himself collapsing into Captain Gunther’s embrace, surrendering to the emotions he fought so hard to contain. His sobs ripped through him more furiously than before, as he clung to his captain, a lifeline amidst the storm of his grief.

Chapter Text

Nikolai didn’t know how long he drifted off to sleep while sobbing into Captain Gunther's arms, but it must have been a long time because when he woke up, his eyes stung, his throat was dry, and yet Captain Gunther was still there, looking as if he hadn’t moved at all. The captain sat on the floor with his back against the wall, one knee propped up, the other stretched out with Nikolai’s head resting across it. With his eyes shut, the captain’s face wore an unusual sense of peace Nikolai had rarely seen before. 

When it finally dawned on Nikolai just how vulnerable he felt with his head lying in his captain’s lap, he quickly tried to get up, only to stop as he felt the captain’s hand lightly pressing on his shoulder.

“You don’t have to get up just yet,” Captain Gunther said, his eyes still closed. His voice felt oddly comforting to Nikolai in the dimly lit room. “I can tell you haven’t been sleeping well, so take your time.”

Nikolai felt an overwhelming urge to protest, to excuse himself from what he perceived as burdening Captain Gunther. But as he moved to get up, he couldn’t help but allow the captain’s hand to gently guide him back down, reassuring him that it was okay. To remain here on his lap, feeling safe. Feeling cared for.

Reluctantly, Nikolai settled back down as he listened to the steady rhythm of the captain’s breathing and his own against the backdrop of distant footsteps. 

After a while, Captain Gunther broke the silence. 

“This room hasn’t changed since the first time I came here,” Captain Gunther mused, his eyes wandering around the storeroom. A faint smile tugging at his lips. “My first week at Vanguard, I was reprimanded in front of my entire platoon for not memorizing a formation quick enough. I was so embarrassed, I ran off and hid right here until my captain sent out a search party for me. He was so furious, he made me practice the formation all night until the sun came up.”

Nikolai looked up, a trace of surprise flickering across his face. It was odd, seeing this other side of his captain. 

Gunther chuckled softly, a playful glint in his eyes. "Tell me, did you run here because schoolwork got too tough?” He teased, trying to draw a lighter thread through the dense fabric of the moment. "I did tell you to learn a thing or two from your classes. Maybe I expected too much?"

Embarrassment flushed across Nikolai’s cheeks. "No, that’s not why," he mumbled, quickly looking away. Afraid that if the captain looked at him too long, he’d see right through his facade. 

Captain Gunther studied Nikolai for a moment before speaking again. “Is it because of Cassian, the new recruit from Hades?” he asked, voice low. 

Nikolai stiffened, his reaction confirming Captain Gunther’s suspicion.

The captain continued, "I saw what happened at the trials, between you and Cassian. I won’t pretend to know the whole story, but it was clear he meant a lot to you. Most would not hesitate to abandon a teammate to secure a victory. However, it was apparent that this was a difficult decision for you, but one you had to make despite its implications. I’m glad to see that you didn’t take your decision lightly.”

“Do you think I’m pathetic then?” Nikolai's voice was a hoarse whisper, his eyes fixed on the ceiling.

Captain Gunther’s expression softened for a moment before he lightly smacked Nikolai on the forehead with the tip of his finger, causing him to yelp in response. “Don’t ever mistake your feelings for weakness, Nikolai,” he chided. “But to answer your question, I don’t see it as a weakness. I see it as a lesson in understanding the hard decisions we must make and determining if the cost justifies the means.”

Nikolai sat up from his captain’s lap, rubbing the spot where the captain had smacked him a mere second ago. Nikolai turned away, grateful his back was now to the captain. He didn't want him to see the tears welling up in the corners of his eyes. Not that the captain didn’t already witness him sobbing like a child just hours earlier.

He struggled to keep his emotions in check, but they bubbled up inside him until he finally took a deep breath, his voice strained with emotion. “Do you think he hates me now? For what I did?” He paused, swallowing hard, trying to compose himself. “It just... it felt like I had no choice. Like I was backed into a corner, and... and I had to do it. Leave him there—and if I didn’t then… then I wouldn’t have made it to Vanguard. And without Vanguard, I wouldn’t be able to—” 

Abruptly, Nikolai cut himself off and clenched his jaw. He wanted to say it—his justification for being here, the lengths he'd go to achieve his goal. But he couldn’t. Not to Captain Gunther. Not to anyone else here at Vanguard. 

His reasons needed no company. 

Nikolai’s hesitation wasn’t lost on the captain, who watched the younger boy struggle to find his words. 

After giving Nikolai some time to collect himself, Captain Gunter spoke. “Nikolai, what you did was a difficult choice, but one made in the heat of circumstance. Whether he hates you or not, I cannot say. But what matters most is how you reconcile with yourself over the decision you made." 

The captain stood up from the floor and walked over to where Nikolai sat and gave his shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “Understand, Nikolai, that your reasons are yours alone. They don’t require validation from anyone else, least of all from me. At the end of the day, you must find peace with the choices you’ve made. If not, then you need to have the strength to admit when you’re wrong, make amends, and pay your dues.”

Pay his dues, huh? 

Nikolai glanced up at Captain Gunther, his heart sinking as their eyes met. Quickly, he looked away, unable to hold the captain's gaze as guilt crept into his stomach, twisting and turning it into knots. Slowly, Nikolai got to his feet. His eyes fixed on a loose thread in the fabric of his shirt as he clenched and unclenched his hand. Nervous about what he was going to say. Almost stopping himself from going through with it. 

“Captain, I need to tell you something.”

Captain Gunther arched his eyebrows as he watched Nikolai carefully, his expression unreadable. 

Then, he walked over to one of the dusty desks near the empty boxes across from Nikolai and leaned against it with his arms crossed over his chest, waiting patiently for Nikolai to gather his thoughts.

Silence stretched between them until finally, Nikolai spoke, his voice barely audible. "I went into the washroom, despite knowing the risks," he confessed, eyes meeting Gunther's for the first time since the conversation began. “Dax warned me, told me not to go in.” 

The captain didn’t say anything.

His heart raced, palms sweating, but Nikolai went on. “I... I thought I could handle whatever they had planned,” he began slowly, his voice wavering. “I didn’t want them to think that I was afraid of them.” 

He glanced up briefly at Captain Gunther, then looked away, unable to maintain eye contact as guilt gnawed at him. “I should have listened to Dax," he admitted reluctantly. A lump in his throat. “He warned me, but I went in anyway.”

Captain Gunther regarded Nikolai for a moment. Thinking. Weighing his words carefully.

“Why are you confessing this to me, Nikolai?” the captain asked.

Nikolai shifted his weight to his other foot, his gaze still glued to the floor. “To... to pay my dues...?” he muttered sheepishly. It was true. Kind of. He couldn’t exactly say that he was blackmailed into confessing, could he?

Captain Gunther raised an eyebrow, sensing there was more to it than the boy let on. “Is that so?” he prompted, waiting for Nikolai to elaborate.

“Yes, sir,” Nikolai replied. “You said it yourself… When you’re wrong, you need to admit it, make amends, and pay your dues. And… and that’s what I’m doing, sir.”

“I see,” the captain said, his tone clipped, yet firm. “I appreciate your honesty, Nikolai, but next time, come to me instead of putting yourself in danger. Remember, it’s my responsibility to look after you and everyone else in the platoon. That includes being held accountable for what Marcus did without my permission. He has no right to do what he did. For that, I do apologize on his behalf.”

Nikolai was taken aback. Surprised by his captain’s apology. 

"So... you're not upset?" he asked, hopeful.

The captain shook his head. “Upset? No. Disappointed you didn't trust me enough to handle it? Yes.”

Nikolai winced at Captain Gunther's response.

“I didn’t think it mattered all that much,” Nikolai whispered to no one but himself as he struggled to understand his emotions—guilt for disappointing Captain Gunther and the sinking despair of not living up to the captain's expectations. But before he could process his feelings or find the right words, Captain Gunther continued speaking.

“It does matter. A lot. With that said, I applaud your decision to come forward and I am more than happy to show you how much your safety matters.” Then, with a slight shift of his demeanor, the captain stepped away from the desk and began unbuttoning his jacket. “How are your injuries? Still sore?” 

Nikolai briefly wondered what the captain meant by showing him how much he mattered before shrugging in response to the captain’s question with a quiet, “Just a little sore, sir,” Nikolai admitted, feeling better than he had in days.

With slight hesitation, he added, “Maybe a couple bruises left but nothing too serious…” his voice trailing off as Nikolai watched Captain Gunther look around the dusty storeroom until his gaze settled on an old leather-bound book on the floor. He grabbed it and dusted it off before placing it down on the desk in front of him. 

Nikolai titled his head to the side in confusion. 

What was Captain Gunther doing with a book in the middle of their conversation? 

Without another word, Captain Gunther walked over to the back of the storeroom where an upside-down chair lay against the wall. Again, he picked it up, dusted it off, and placed it in front of the desk. Then, to Nikolai's growing realization, Captain Gunther sat down, facing Nikolai. Gone was the captain’s face of soft concern, in its place stood the man Nikolai was all too familiar with. Cold and unyielding. Even in the dim light, Nikolai could see the resolve in his eyes from across the room. 

“Sir...?”

“I am aware that I owe you a conversation about respect, but I didn't realize we also needed to address the importance of your safety and well-being.” Captain Gunther's voice was calm, matter-of-fact, as Nikolai watched him unbutton his cuffs and rolled his sleeves up. 

Nikolai instinctively took a step back. A chill ran down his spine as he grasped what Captain Gunther was about to do. In panic, Nikolai shook his head. No, not here. Not now. He isn't really going to... is he?

“Sir, are you…?”

“Helping you pay your dues? Yes, I am. C’mere,” the captain responded as he tapped his foot on the floor. 

For a second, Nikolai considered making a run for it, but his legs wouldn’t budge. Not like he hadn’t tried that already. He didn’t get very far the first time. He doubted the second time would be any different. And from the look on the captain’s face, Nikolai could tell it was best not to keep the man waiting.

Besides, hadn’t he asked for this? What else did he expect to happen, acting all high and mighty, confessing his sins and all? Truth to be told, a part of him felt a strange sense of relief—a chance to make things right. Tentatively, Nikolai found himself walking over, his legs moving on their own accord until he found himself standing between the captain’s legs.

Residing to his fate, Nikolai asked, his voice barely above a whisper, “How do you want me?”

He watched the captain tapped his left knee. “Pants off, over my knee.”

Nikolai balked at the command.

What was he, a child?

And yet, with his face burning with shame, he unbuckled his pants, lowered them, and bent over the captain’s knee all the same. And then to Nikolai’s horror, the captain lifted his knee up just enough to tug Nikolai’s boxer down to his mid-thighs. His ass cold in the air, his palms flat on the floor. He had never felt as exposed and vulnerable as he did at this moment. It took everything in Nikolai not to jump off and make a run for it, pants be damned. As if reading his mind, Nikolai felt the captain’s arm wrapped around his waist, holding him tight, pulling him closer. 

Nikolai wondered if the captain would warn him before he started. Probably not.

Squeezing his eyes closed, Nikolai gritted his teeth, and braced himself. 

“I need you to remember this, Nikolai, I care deeply about the safety of my soldiers, including yours,” the captain began as his hand came crashing down with a crack. Nikolai gasped in shock as a searing strip of pain lit up his ass, and before he had a chance to catch his breath, the captain delivered a second blow in the same spot. The third one came down with the same intensity as the other two combined, and Nikolai couldn’t help but cry out, his legs kicking in a futile effort to avoid the pain. Without missing a beat, the captain locked Nikolai’s legs underneath his.

Hoping that the captain wouldn’t notice how close to tears he was already, Nikolai quickly wiped his face using the back of his hand. He didn’t expect the captain’s hand to hurt this bad—but fuck, what was the captain’s hand made out of? A brick wall? Steel? Fire?

“When you ignore advice and put yourself in harm's way, it shows me that you may not fully appreciate your own safety,” the captain said as he continued the onslaught on Nikolai’s ass, quickly turning it crimson. “Unfortunately, that is not acceptable. Even if you don't care about your own well-being, rest assured, I do.” 

His words came in hard, rapid-fire blows, each one causing Nikolai to cry out sharply as he struggled to squirm away. When the captain hit the same spot the fifth time, Nikolai's hand flew back in an attempt to shield himself, but Captain Gunther quickly grabbed it and pinned the boy's arm behind his back. 

“Hands in the front, you know that,” the captain scolded gently. Then, as if to reinforce his point, the captain’s hand came crashing down the same spot. Again. And again.

It was all too much for Nikolai. The pain. The guilt. 

For so long, Nikolai had carried the burden of his own reckless decisions, his impulsive choices, his disregard for consequence—he was his own alibi. But for the first time in his life, he put aside his pride, his ego, and accepted that just maybe, it was okay to let someone else care about him. Let him know that it was okay to make mistakes. To hold him accountable for his actions.

And just like that, Nikolai’s house of cards toppled and he broke down as the weight of years of self-imposed isolation and guilt crashed over him in waves. Noticing the sudden tremble in Nikolai’s shoulders and the hitch in his voice, the captain realized that it was time to bring it home.

“Your well-being is important, and considering everything we’ve discussed, this is something we must address. If not for my sake, but for yours, I suggest you rectify that. Immediately.” With that said, the captain picked up the leather-bound book he dusted off earlier and brought it down with vengeance. "Know that if you ever doubt it, I won't hesitate to bring you over my knee and remind you of how important you are, each and every time. Perhaps then, you'll learn to respect yourself enough to avoid unnecessary risks.” 

Nikolai’s eyes flew open, his cries coming out through clenched teeth as the captain gave new life to Nikolai by punctuating each word with the resounding blow of the leather book. Scrambling, Nikolai grabbed onto the captain’s pant legs for dear life. His eyes shut tight as tears streamed down his face. But he dared not ask the captain to stop. He felt that deep down, in some twisted way, felt that he deserved this—no, that he needed this. A guardrail. An anchor. Someone who cared.

“We’re almost done,” the captain reassured as he brought the book down to where his ass met thigh.

Nikolai's voice broke into pained sobs as each strike intensified his already sore sit spots. By this point, Nikolai was just a ball of tears and snot all over again. His resistance completely left him as he laid there, crying his heart out, realizing that he had disappointed not just himself, but someone who believed in him, who saw potential beyond his mistakes. Who cared enough to be there for him when all he wanted was to disappear. To be nothing but a ghost in the wind. 

Finally, it ended as soon as it started.

“There, there. I’m right here,” the captain comforted, his hand drawing slow circles up and down Nikolai’s back. “I know that it hurts, but you took that very well. I’m proud of you.” 

In a heartbeat, what little was left of his defenses shattered as Nikolai sobbed uncontrollably while Captain Gunther gingerly pulled Nikolai upright and adjusted his pants before pulling Nikolai into his embrace. 

“Shh, it's okay,” Captain Gunther said softly, his voice warm. Comforting. “You're safe now. It's alright to let it out.” He gently stroked Nikolai's back. “Everyone makes mistakes, Nikolai. What matters is that you learn from them. If not from the consequences of your actions, but across my knee, then so be it. And most importantly, know that your safety matters—that you matter. Just know that I care about you. Of course, whether you believe it or not, is up to you. But make no mistake, I am here for you.” 

Nikolai's sobs began to subside as the captain continued, “I may not understand what you’re going through completely, but no matter what, once you’re my soldier, you’re mine to take care of. Always. You hear me?”

Nikolai nodded into his chest as the captain smiled affectionately. 

“There, there. You’ll be okay.” 

Nikolai dared himself to believe the captain, even if just for a moment. 

Chapter Text

As Nikolai and Captain Gunther entered the mess hall together, the rumble of conversations quieted as the eyes of the other soldiers fell on them. It was the first time since the incident that the two had been seen together, and that alone was enough for the others to search for any hint of weakness. Anything they could exploit. Quick, stolen glances—to see if a thrown pebble could shatter the glass castle. The heads would turn when they thought both he and Captain Gunther were oblivious. 

But the captain noticed. 

Of course, he did. 

He just didn’t care, walking with his head held high, shoulders squared, while Nikolai followed half a step behind.

Every step the captain took was deliberate, as if the ground itself bent to his will. He wondered how the captain managed to walk through a room completely unbothered—in control, not constantly second-guessing himself under the judgment of others. Instead, there was Nikolai trailing behind the captain, shifting awkwardly under the weight of their stares, letting their eyes chip away at him, while the captain glided through it all like none of it mattered. 

Nikolai could tell from the way their eyes lingered, from the snickers and whispers barely masked behind raised hands, exactly what they were talking about. But as he kept walking, those whispers started to sound like taunts.

Like cowardice. 

Here they were, huddled together like children, whispering behind their hands about how he didn’t belong, how Captain Gunther had made a mistake by keeping him around. Too scared to say anything to his face because they were terrified of the captain. It was pathetic. Spineless. The more he thought about it, the angrier he got.

His fingers twitched at the thought of knocking one of them down, to see if they’d still be laughing. He could feel the fire starting to rise in his chest. The instinct to fight, to lash out. To hurt. That’s what he did when he felt cornered—when things got too much, he hit back. Hard.

But not here. 

Not now.

Nikolai clenched his jaw, forcing the anger down. He wasn’t about to lose it in front of the captain. Not again. Not after everything. So he took a deep breath, letting the heat simmer, letting it lose before he did anything he’d regret. 

“Are you hungry?” the captain asked.

Nikolai shrugged, looking at the floor. Trying to keep it together. “No, sir.” 

That was a lie. He was hungry. Famished, even. But was he hungry enough to sit here and pretend that he was okay? Probably not. But whatever was written on Nikolai’s face must’ve been enough for the captain to nudge Nikolai toward one of the empty tables nearby. 

“Go ahead and grab a table for us,” he said. “I’ll get us something to eat.”

Nikolai nodded as he made his way toward the empty table. He wasn’t relieved. Not even close. After everything, he thought he might’ve felt glad to have a moment to himself to breathe. But instead, it felt like the walls were closing in on him and he needed to do something. Anything, to keep himself from burning out of control.

So he flexed his hands, curling them into fists, then relaxing them again. Trying to uncoil the tension with every breath before he lash out at the first sneer, the first sign of disrespect. 

And then there’s the captain.

He hated it. 

He hated how Captain Gunther seemed to read every flicker of his emotions, like the man could peel back the layers and see every inch of him. While Nikolai? All he could do was guess. The captain gave nothing away. His face was always so damn unreadable. Except, sometimes, when he’d smile. It was rare, but it threw Nikolai off every time. Nice, in a way. Confusing, too.

He clenched his fists again, tight enough that his knuckles turned white. He didn’t want to show them anything they could exploit. He wished he could be just like the captain. To be able to sit here, with his head held high. Unbothered. Unfazed.

He opened his hands slowly, forcing himself to breathe. In and out. His eyes drifted to his palms, focusing on the creases as if they held some answer, some way to smolder the fire inside of him. 

One, two, three…

But before he could finish putting out the embers, a voice boomed from across the mess hall.

“Hey!”

Nikolai's head snapped up. His eyes darted around as he tried to make out who was storming toward him. He rolled his eyes when he realized who it was. Marcus. A scowl written across his face like a mole—endearing, but only when you weren’t the one staring straight at it.

“Where the hell were you?”

Folding his arms across his chest, Nikolai sighed as he leaned back in his chair. “Here.”

Marcus raised his eyebrows in disbelief. “This whole time?” 

No, but hell would freeze over before Nikolai would tell Marcus where he was. 

So instead, Nikolai said, “Sure.”

“No kidding.”

“Totally serious.” 

“Fuck off,” Marcus snapped, visibly upset. “I know you’re lying, you piece of shit. I know you weren’t here because I was just here an hour ago.”

“Maybe you didn’t see me.”

Marcus slammed his hands down on the table, causing Nikolai to jerk away in response. “You shoved Afton and ran off like a little bitch and disappeared! He made me look everywhere for you. Do you know how pissed he is?”

Nikolai groaned. “Afton? Pissed? That's a first.”

Before he could react, Marcus lunged forward from across the table, grabbing Nikolai by the shirt and yanking him forward until their faces were inches apart.

“Don’t be an ass,” Marcus growled.

Nikolai snickered with his hands raised in mock surrender. “Alright, alright. Easy there, man,” he said, almost regretted riling Marcus up. Almost. “You’re really worried about me, huh?”

“Worried? I’m pissed, not worried, you idiot.”

“Sorry, I couldn’t tell. It’s not my fault you say everything in the same tone.”

Marcus clenched his teeth. Nikolai knew he was baiting Marcus. Redirecting his anger. It gave him something to focus on, a way to deflect everything else that was clawing at him. But as Marcus’s grip tightened on his shirt, Nikolai realized he was pushing too far. And for a split second, Nikolai almost wanted it. Almost wanted Marcus to take a swing at him, to give him a reason to hit back. And he was certain that everyone else here wanted that too, a show. A demonstration. 

But he caught himself. 

Quickly, Nikolai added, “Relax, I’m just messing with you.”

“You think this is funny? You think us running around in circles out here looking for you is a fucking joke? Did you know that Afton has been covering for you all day, too—fuck, of course you don’t.” Marcus chuckled to himself. “You don’t think about anyone but yourself. Afton’s out there trying to keep your ass out of trouble, and you act like you can’t even be bothered to care.”

Nikolai’s smirk dropped as Marcus’s words sank in, making room for Nikolai’s frustration to sweep over. “What the hell are you talking about? Afton hasn’t said a word to me in days. He’s been ignoring me like I don’t even exist! How am I supposed to know he was covering for me?”

His voice rose and with it, his anger. “I didn’t ask him to do anything for me. If he was so pissed, he should’ve just let me deal with it—so don’t stand there and act like I’m the one screwing everything up on purpose. I didn’t know.” He paused, his chest heavy, his words softer now. “I… I didn’t know.”

He didn’t know Afton would cover for him. He expected Afton to just, well, go back to ignoring him. This whole time, he hadn’t thought about how his actions might have affected Afton. He’d just... acted. And then proceeded to forget about it. 

“I don’t know what’s going on between you two—and honestly, I don’t care. All I know is that Afton’s got the patience of a saint. I don’t get what he sees in you,” Marcus spat. “Me? I wouldn’t have covered for you. I would’ve just let you get iced out like you should’ve been after that stunt you pulled. But Afton? I don’t get it.”

Nikolai wondered the same thing. Afton had every right to let him deal with the fallout on his own. Yet, there he was, covering for him like Nikolai was worth saving. 

Nikolai swallowed hard and took a deep breath. “Okay. Fine. You’re right.” He met Marcus’s gaze as guilt pooled into his stomach. “I’ll fix it, okay? I’ll talk to Afton.”

Marcus looked like he was about to say something, but then his eyes flickered up over Nikolai’s shoulder, and whatever words he had died on his lips. Suddenly, Marcus let go of Nikolai’s collar and shoved him back. Nikolai stumbled a bit before catching himself on the edge of his chair just as he followed Marcus’s gaze. 

Captain Gunther was standing right behind him. 

His face, unreadable, except for a subtle twitch in the corner of his eye. Two trays of food balanced in his hands. He stood still for a moment, eyes flicking between them for a beat, before laying a tray brimming with food in front of Nikolai and turning to Marcus.

“Have you eaten yet, Marcus?”

Marcus glanced at the food and then back at the captain, ready to lie, but his stomach beat him to it with a loud growl. Nikolai smirked, but quickly wiped the smile off his face when Marcus threw daggers at him.

“Here, sit,” Captain Gunther said, already pulling out a chair for Marcus. Leaving no room for argument, the captain turned and headed toward the food counter, leaving Marcus to reluctantly drop into the seat across from Nikolai, glaring at him as if this whole situation was entirely his fault.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were with Captain Gunther?” Marcus hissed.

Nikolai picked up his fork and began poking at the mashed potatoes on his tray. “I ran into him when… Anyway, I’ve been with him this whole time, so uh, he knows that I skipped.”

Marcus huffed, sinking into the chair as if running out of fumes. “Could’ve mentioned that.”

“Yeah,” Nikolai shrugged, stabbing another glob of mashed potatoes. “Probably.”

“So why the hell are you with him, then?”

Nikolai paused, his fork hovering over his tray. “Because it’s none of your business?”

"None of my business?" Marcus hissed, leaning forward on his elbows, his voice dropping to a whisper. "You’re skipping class, disappearing without telling anyone where the hell you’ve been, and getting Afton to cover for you—and it’s none of my business?"

If Marcus could kill with a look, it was the one he was boring into Nikolai’s skull. But Nikolai didn’t react. He wasn’t about to give Marcus the satisfaction.

“Yeah,” Nikolai finally muttered. Annoyed now. “It’s none of your business.”

Marcus slammed his fist on the table, causing the plates to rattle. “That’s bullshit.”

Nikolai sighed, finally setting his fork down and giving Marcus his full attention. “What’s your problem? What do you want me to say?”

“I just want to know where you were and why you were with the captain.”

Nikolai hesitated. “He... found me. That's all. We talked.”

Marcus raised an eyebrow. “Talked? About what?"

Nikolai shrugged, "Stuff."

“Stuff?” Marcus snorted. “Right, ‘stuff.’ That’s real clear. Thanks.”

“Why do you even care so much? It’s not like you and Afton are friends.”

A look of surprise flashed across Marcus’s face before he quickly masked it with a scowl. “We are friends, I think,” Marcus muttered, looking away. But it was too late. Nikolai noticed it, there was something deeper than Marcus was letting on. 

“So what is it, then? I’ve never even seen you two talk.”

Marcus squirmed in his seat. “It’s none of your business.”

Nikolai smirked. “Oh, it’s none of my business? That’s rich coming from you.”

“Shut up.”

“Touchy, aren’t we?” Nikolai leaned back, enjoying this a bit too much. 

Marcus parted his lips as if to speak, but quickly snapped them shut as a flush of red flashed across his face. Then, reluctantly, he mumbled, “We used to be together. Me and Afton.”

Nikolai blinked, caught completely off guard. “Wait… you and Afton? Together?”

“Yeah.”

“It’s just…”

Marcus narrowed his eyes. “What?”

“It’s just… I never would’ve guessed,” Nikolai said in disbelief. “It’s just, I can’t picture it. I mean, you’re all…” He gestured vaguely at Marcus, “...and Afton’s all…well, you know.” 

“Shut up,” Marcus snapped, defensive. “We’re different. But you know what, it worked. For a time.” He shook his head. “It doesn’t matter, it’s over. It’s been over for a while.”

Nikolai was taken aback. Of all the things he’d expected from Marcus, this was definitely not one of them. He had never imagined Marcus—all rough around the edges, always itching for a fight—being with someone like Afton. The two seemed like complete opposites. Easygoing Afton, who could find a joke in anything and make it seem effortless, with Marcus? All fire and fury? How the hell had that worked?

It didn’t make sense. 

He had never seen them interact, let alone be close. 

And yet, Nikolai couldn’t help but feel a flicker of respect for Marcus. Even if things were over between him and Afton, Marcus clearly still cared enough to help. That, Nikolai can respect. “So that’s why you’ve been helping him out, huh? You’re still looking out for him.”

Marcus’s jaw tightened, but his eyes gave way to something softer, almost wistful. “He doesn’t need my help.” Quietly, he added, “He’s fine on his own. Always has been.” 

Nikolai almost wanted to ask what happened between them but stopped himself. He wasn’t sure if he’d get an answer and besides, he doubted Marcus wanted him of all people to be privy to his and Afton’s history. So instead, Nikolai settled on offering Marcus a small, reassuring smile, though he doubted it did much. All it managed to do was earn him a grunt from Marcus, who quickly looked away, avoiding eye contact. 

Thankfully, before the silence could stretch any further, Captain Gunther returned with another tray of food.

“Here you go,” Captain Gunther said, setting the tray in front of Marcus. 

Marcus nodded and muttered a quick, “Thanks,” before digging into the food like he hasn’t eaten in days. For someone who said he wasn’t hungry, Marcus sure ate like one. 

Nikolai tried to follow suit, but his appetite was gone. Each bite felt like sawdust, his mind wandering back to Afton. He had figured Afton had moved on, gone about his day without a second thought. Hell, he didn’t even know Afton had been looking for him. But hearing Marcus say Afton had covered for him? That hit harder than Nikolai wanted to admit. He had thought Afton was done with him, didn’t care.

But now?

All he could think about was finding Afton. Talk to him, make things right.

The hum of conversation filled the mess hall. He glanced at Marcus, who was too focused on shoveling food into his mouth, pausing only to discuss war game strategies with Captain Gunther between bites. Words like “flanking maneuver” and “choke point” were meaningless to Nikolai as he pushed the food around his plate. 

Finally, Nikolai couldn’t take it anymore and set his fork down with a clatter, louder than he intended.

Captain Gunther glanced up. “Something wrong, Nikolai?”

“I, uh…” Nikolai hesitated, his eyes nervously darting between the captain and Marcus. “I should go.”

Marcus raised an eyebrow, mid-bite. “Go? Where?”

Nikolai shot Marcus a pointed look. Marcus held his gaze for a second before giving a small, knowing nod. No words were needed. He knew what Nikolai intended to do.

The quiet exchange between the two was not lost on Captain Gunther who offered Nikolai a faint smile. “Go on. We’ll finish up here.”

Nikolai nodded and headed out of the mess hall. He wasn’t sure what he’d say when he found Afton, wasn’t sure if it would fix anything at all. But he had to try. It was the least he could do. After all, no matter how he felt, at the end of the day, Afton was his friend, and this is what friends do for each other, right?

—

Nikolai headed straight for the barracks. When he reached the room, it was empty. Afton wasn’t there. Without wasting time, he turned and headed toward the shooting range. The familiar sound of gunfire echoed as he pushed open the door, but a quick scan of the room told him what he already knew and so he headed back out the door. 

He tried the training facility next. Same result. 

Nikolai stood in the corridor for a moment, considering his options and wondering where Afton could be. It didn’t take long before it clicked—if he wasn’t in his usual spots, then Afton was probably attending a lecture. Immediately, Nikolai made his way toward the lecture hall.

What lecture could Afton be in at this hour? He had heard him mention something about tactical operations earlier in the week—maybe that was it. Afton never missed those. He loved anything that involved strategy—analyzing situations, picking them apart, and figuring out how to make them work. It was one of the few things he and Afton had in common. Yeah, that had to be it. 

Nikolai quickened his pace, rounding a corner. Once there, he stood just outside the door, leaning against the wall, waiting. He could hear the faint murmur of the instructor’s voice from inside, but all Nikolai could focus on was what he’d say when Afton finally came out.

Should he apologize first? Or try to explain himself? What could he even say? Sorry for snapping? Sorry for pushing you away because I was pissed about everything? None of it seemed good enough. Even if he tried to explain, how could he put into words why he shoved Afton in the first place? He didn’t mean to. It just happened. A reaction. He was furious—at first at seeing Cassian, then at how Afton had been treating him. 

He let out a frustrated sigh. Sure, he could’ve handled it better. For starters, he didn’t have to shove him. He could’ve just told Afton that he needed space. Maybe he didn’t need to explain himself first. Maybe it was about listening for once. Let Afton get out whatever he wanted to say. 

Eventually, he heard the muffled shuffling of chairs from inside the lecture hall. The class was ending.

Quickly, Nikolai straightened up as the door to the lecture hall swung open. As other soldiers from the class began filling out the corridor, he kept his eyes trained on the door. And then, he caught sight of Afton. 

But before Nikolai could call out, Afton’s eyes landed on him, freezing him in place. Nikolai hesitated, unsure if he should speak or wait. The look on Afton’s face made his heart stutter. At first, there was relief, but it quickly shifted to frustration. His lips pressed into a thin line, the usual warmth in his eyes replaced by something sharper. The sudden change caught Nikolai off guard—he wasn’t used to seeing Afton’s jaw clenched, his expression so serious, so… upset.

“Nikolai!” Afton’s called out, rushing over. “Where have you been?”

Nikolai opened his mouth to answer, but Afton cut him off, his brows knitted together as a mixture of concern and irritation flooded his face. “You can’t just disappear like that,” Afton said, his voice tight. Stern. “Do you have any idea how worried I’ve been?”

“I’m sorry,” Nikolai started. “I didn’t mean to push you, I just—there was Cassian and…” He trailed off, not wanting to get into Cassian right now as he looked at the floor and back at Afton.  “I was upset, okay? I pushed you because—because you were ignoring me, and then all of a sudden, you swoop in as if you’ve been there for me this whole time and then—” He stopped, trying to gather his thoughts. “That pissed me off, alright?”

Nikolai paused, searching Afton’s face for any reaction. He was hoping to see something. Understanding, anger, betrayal—anything. But Afton’s expression remained unchanged. Calm. Guarded. It was impossible to tell what Afton was thinking with him standing there, arms crossed. 

Finally, Afton let out a deep sigh, his eyes leveling with Nikolai. “Ignoring you? What are you talking about?”

“Dax told me you guys were ignoring me because you were afraid of me—because of what happened in the washroom,” Nikolai blurted out before he could stop them. 

Afton blinked, confused and then let out a sharp laugh. “Afraid of you?” Afton smirked, his lopsided smile tugging at his lips. “No offense, Nikolai, but I’ve seen you trip over your own boots. If I were scared of anything, it’d be you accidentally taking us both out in the middle of a war game.”

“But Dax—”

“What did he say exactly?”

“He said that, well,” Nikolai shifted to his other foot, “that everyone’s been keeping their distance because they’re afraid of me and I thought that’s the reason you’ve been ignoring me.”

“Look,” Afton said. “I wasn’t ignoring you, Nikolai. I thought you needed space, so I gave it to you. As for the others,” he threw his hands in the air in exasperation, “I don’t know. Maybe they’re afraid of your terrible aim or the fact that you can take out half a squad with just a glare.”

“I did a lot more than just a glare.”

Afton grinned and gave Nikolai a light punch on the shoulder.

“Yeah, I know,” Afton said with a chuckle. “Trust me, I heard all about it the next day when we had to go train. It was all they could talk about. Seven against one, and you took down half of them. Imagine that, a little greenie like you.”

Nikolai smiled sheepishly at the unexpected praise. “I just didn’t want to go down without a fight, you know?”

Afton’s gaze softened. “Absolutely.”

“But still,” Nikolai swallowed, “Why would you ignore me like that? Even if you were trying to give me space, it felt like—like you didn’t care, or whatever.”

Afton shook his head. "Come on, sunshine, you should know me better than that. Of course I care." 

“—even this morning, you left without me.”

“Because I had an errand to run.”

“What about the other day? I asked if you wanted to grab lunch with me and you just blew me off.”

“I told you, I had a meeting with Captain Elias,” Afton said. 

Nikolai frowned. “I saw Captain Elias in the mess hall that day and you weren’t there.”

“He was grabbing some food before we met up while I had to prepare some gameplay vids before the meeting. I wasn’t just blowing you off.” 

The knot in Nikolai’s stomach kept getting tighter and tighter until he felt like he couldn’t breathe. “It just… it didn’t feel that way. It felt like you didn’t want to be around me at all.”

Afton narrowed his eyes as he studied Nikolai. “Alright, what’s really going on?” he asked, cutting to the chase. “This isn’t just about me, is it?”

Nikolai shifted uncomfortably under Afton’s gaze. “I don’t know… It’s just—these past couple of days have been really hard for me, okay? Ever since the war game, and then Marcus, and then Cassian—” He winced, realizing he said his name again. Fuck.

“Cassian?”

Nikolai cursed at himself. “Just forget it, okay?”

“Hey, hey, no, you’re not going to shut me out again,” Afton protested. “Bad Nikolai, we’re not doing this again. Who's Cassian to you? Someone you know? This is the second time you mentioned him.”

Nikolai clenched his jaw, his hands curled into fists at his sides and for a moment, he thought about brushing it off, walking away, anything to avoid talking about him. But Afton’s eyes held him where he stood, refusing to let him escape.

“I don't want to talk about him, Afton,” Nikolai whispered. “It’s hard for me, because we were friends—before Vanguard. And we were close. Real close. But I—” the words catching in his throat. “I hurt him. I betrayed him—I left him there and I did that because I wanted to be here. At Vanguard. I needed to, you know? To find someone.”

“Find someone?” Afton asked, his head tilting to the side.

“Yes,” Nikolai nodded. “There's someone I need to find and I couldn’t do it if I didn’t get into Vanguard—”

“Wait, hold on,” Afton interjected as a realization hit him. “Was that Cassian? From your third trial? The one bleeding out?”

Nikolai stiffened. “Yes. That was him.”

Afton whistled, his eyes wide. “I barely recognized him. I saw the trial. Everyone did. But I never put two and two together. That was Cassian? Wow.”

“I had to,” Nikolai said quietly. “I didn’t have a choice. It was either him or… or my brother.”

“Your brother?”

Nikolai exhaled shakily. “Yes. My brother. He’s the reason why I’m here. Why I did what I did—just so I could get into Vanguard. He’s the one I’m looking for.” 

“I didn’t know you had a brother. Who is he? Maybe I can help you look for him.”

Nikolai hesitated. Wondering if he should, for once, be honest. 

“I don’t know, Afton,” Nikolai mumbled, “I was planning on looking for him by myself.”

“Come on, Nikolai. Don’t do this. If you’ve got people around who want to help, why not let them?”

Nikolai avoided Afton’s eyes. “It’s not that simple.”

“It doesn’t have to be complicated either,” Afton pressed. “Just tell me who he is. Let me help.”

Nikolai drew in a shaky breath, feeling the words on the edge of his lips. “Mikhael. His name is Mikhael.”

The blood drained from Afton’s face as he took a step back. “Mikhael?” he asked, almost like he needed a moment to process it. “Mikhael, from Hades? He’s your brother?”

“Do you know him?”

Afton let out a hollow laugh, running a hand through his hair. “Know him? Nikolai, who doesn’t know him? He’s the Reaper of Hades. Everyone knows who your brother is.”

Nikolai’s stomach dropped. 

The Reaper of Hades. 

Of course his brother had earned some twisted nickname. Mikhael, the brother he hated, the one he wanted to kill, was in the same army as Cassian. The realization hit him like a punch to the gut. He wanted revenge, wanted Mikhael dead, but now all he could think about was the danger Cassian might be in. 

Cassian… with Mikhael?

Afton’s voice snapped Nikolai back to reality, but his mind was already racing a thousand miles. “Nikolai? Hey, are you okay?”

“The Hades barracks, where is it?”

Afton blinked, caught off guard. “They’re in the south wing. Wait—Nikolai, no. It’s not a good idea to go there.”

“I don’t care—Cas is in Hades. He shouldn’t be there—I need to talk to him. I need to warn him.”

Afton grabbed Nikolai’s shoulder, trying to stop him. “Look, Nikolai, you can’t go there. It’s a bad idea. Trust me.”

“I don’t care!” Nikolai snapped, shaking Afton’s hand off as he shoved past him. “He’s in danger, Afton. I need to—”

“—Nikolai—no, listen to me—” Afton called after him, but it was too late.

Nikolai was already sprinting down the corridor, his heart pounding in his chest, completely ignoring Afton’s shouts as the image of Cassian consumed his thoughts. All he could see was Cassian—Cassian and Mikhael, together. The thought of it made him sick. He didn’t have time to think, didn’t have time to listen. He had to reach him—fast.

Chapter Text

Nikolai has always been a runner. 

Running was simple. Pure instinct. It didn’t matter if he was running through the woods, or sprinting down the dirt paths of their province, heart pounding in sync with the shrill wails of the curfew sirens. Sometimes, when he ran, he felt like nothing could touch him, like the whole world was beneath his feet. 

It was what he was good at. 

It was all he was good at. 

He wasn’t like Mikhael, who excelled at anything and everything, while Nikolai’s talents were smaller—fleeting, things that didn’t leave a mark. In the end, running fast meant nothing. It didn’t stop death machines from breaking down their door, their crimson armbands stark against drywall. It didn’t stop them from dragging his family by their necks, one by one, their backs to cold walls. 

A gun barrel to their head. 

White smoke, and red snow.

At eight, his whole world was dead. 

But he wasn’t. 

And because he wasn’t, because he was still breathing when everything else had turned to ash and bone, he kept running—because to stop now was to go mute, deaf, and blind.

So he ran through the corridor, from one corner to the next. The halls twisted and turned and blurred past him. His legs burned, his muscles screamed, but he didn’t slow. 

Because somewhere ahead, Cassian was there. 

Cassian, who knew the truth about Mikhael. 

Cassian, who knew what happened that day. 

And if Cassian tried to confront him—if he even so much as looked at Mikhael the wrong way—Nikolai didn’t know what his brother would do. And what he hated most was knowing that it was his fault. He should have figured out sooner which army Mikhael was in. He had his suspicions, but he held back. He couldn’t risk Mikhael finding out that Nikolai knew he was here, lurking around, asking about him. One question was all it would take to reach Mikhael. 

Nikolai couldn’t let that happen. 

He thought it was better to bide his time and wait. So he waited. Told himself that waiting was the smart thing to do. The right thing to do. But sometimes, late at night, when silence stretched too long, he wondered if it was a lie—if maybe his hesitation wasn’t precautionary at all. 

What if it was fear? 

Fear that he wasn’t strong enough. Fear that his hatred, for all its sharp edges, wouldn’t be enough when the time came.

He hated the thought, hated himself for even thinking it. But wasn’t that what it was? His hesitation? Cowardice? Because deep down, he knew he could have found Mikhael by now if he’d really wanted to. He could have asked the right questions, followed the right leads. He could have forced his way to the truth.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he told himself to wait. To be patient. To plan. Because waiting felt safer than action, and patience felt smarter than the thought of what would come next. He convinced himself it was strategy, but sometimes, in those rare moments when the truth crept in and cornered him, he knew better.

That his hatred, his anger, his pain—amounted to nothing but empty promises. Promises to himself that he’d act when the time was right. That he’d be ready whenever and wherever. And yet, the thought of facing Mikhael made him want to puke. And Mikhael? Mikhael would see right through him in an instant. He’d know that Nikolai wasn’t ready. That for all the rage and fire in him, Nikolai was nothing more than a candlelight to his monsoon. 

Nikolai clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms. The sting steadied him, if only a little. It didn’t matter if Mikhael saw through him. It didn’t matter if he wasn’t ready. Because Cassian didn’t have time for Nikolai to sort through his fears, to figure out who he was or what he should be. 

So he ran. Faster. Harder. 

Because fuck fear.

As he rounded another corner, his breath ragged, a group of soldiers came into view, lingering by the wall. Nikolai skidded to a halt in front of them, barely able to steady his voice as he demanded, “Where’s Hades?”

The soldiers exchanged confused glances with each other. Their brows furrowed at the sight of him, all sweat-soaked and wild-eyed.

“South wing,” one of them finally said, pointing down the hall. “Left at the end of the hall.”

Nikolai took off again, his boots pounding against the floor. The south wing stretched ahead until the Hades insignia came into view—a bident etched into the steel door at the end of the hall, its twin prongs jagged. His feet were lead. His eyes traced the outline of the Hades symbol on the wall. Like the Poseidon insignia on his uniform, the Hades symbol was pulled from old storybooks, relics of a forgotten world the Republic had long since buried. According to his history lectures, it represented a time when men made up stories to explain things they feared. Things they couldn’t control. Gods of storms and seas, of death and fire—myths meant to soothe their ignorance or justify their wars.

None of them were real. 

But the Republic didn’t need gods. Instead, they told stories of the East—of warring states and endless terror beyond the border. 

And then it began. 

First, they listened. They’d pressed their ear against the door, against the silence between bated breaths. They waited, still as a bug, for the faintest sign of betrayal. A slip of the tongue. A word out of place. Anything to prove that the East wasn’t just beyond the border, but here. Inside the Republic. 

Inside your home.

And when you were caught—BANG.

Dead. 

That’s how it worked. That’s how the Republic made its people. Bugs on the wall. Bugs under the table. Bugs that couldn’t be seen, couldn't be heard. Foreign bugs. Because something that could hide so long among family, among friends, had to be.

It turned neighbors into informants. Families into spies. And brothers into enemies.

Nikolai hadn’t understood it then, not completely. For years, Nikolai tried to reconcile the brother he’d loved with the person who traded their lives for his own. He was too young to see the cracks in his brother’s gaze or the way the soldier leaned in, whispering, real quiet, “You did the right thing.”

Mikhael has given them a story. 

He turned fear into ammunition and handed it to the Republic.

The story of a family harboring Eastern sympathizers. The story of an enemy within. And the Republic believed it. Not because it was true, but because it didn’t need to be. Truth didn’t matter when fear was enough. And now, somewhere beyond those steel doors, stood the same brother who had sacrificed them all to save himself. 

Just as Nikolai's fingers yanked the door open, something—or someone—slammed into him. The impact sent him stumbling as he instinctively reached out to steady himself against the wall. The other person staggered too, nearly falling, but caught themselves. Nikolai blinked, confused, before he locked eyes on the familiar face in front of him.

It was the same boy from the shooting range.

“You—” Nikolai started.

“—you can’t be here,” the boy blurted out in that same monotone voice Nikolai hated. The boy stepped forward and planted himself squarely in front of the door. His expression, blank.

“Move,” Nikolai demanded as frustration bubbled to the surface. 

The boy didn’t respond. 

“I said, move,” Nikolai repeated. 

Still, the boy didn’t speak. 

Nikolai’s temper snapped. He surged forward, trying to shove the boy aside, but the instant he got within a foot of him, the boy reacted instantly, grabbing Nikolai’s arm in a vice-like grip. Without thinking, Nikolai reacted. He twisted his arm free in one fluid motion. His other hand grabbed onto the boy’s shoulder, and with a sharp pivot of his heel, Nikolai shifted his weight and sent the boy hurling over his shoulder against the door. 

The boy hit the ground hard, but he didn’t stay down. He quickly rolled to his feet, his face calm and expressionless as ever, save for the faintest flicker of irritation. He launched himself toward Nikolai again, this time, prepared. 

Nikolai barely had time to brace before the boy’s fist went flying straight for his jaw. Nikolai twisted his body just enough to avoid the blow as the boy’s knuckles grazed his cheek. The momentum of the missed punch carried the boy forward, and Nikolai seized the opening, driving his fist hard below the boy’s ribs. The impact landed with a satisfying thud, sending the boy back. Quicker than Nikolai anticipated, the boy recovered and rushed Nikolai.

Nikolai sidestepped him toward the door. His hand reached out, fingertips brushing the steel handle—only for the boy to leap onto his back, his legs locking around Nikolai’s waist, his arms looping tightly around Nikolai’s neck in a chokehold. 

The sudden force knocked Nikolai off balance.

“What are you, a monkey?” Nikolai growled as his knees buckled slightly under the boy’s weight. Snarling, Nikolai braced himself, planting his feet firmly before slamming his back with the boy on it against the nearest wall with all of his strength. The impact reverberated loudly through the corridor. Loud enough for a couple of soldiers passing by behind them from the main hall to pour into the corridor, drawn by the commotion.

Most paused to watch. Out of the corner of his eye, Nikolai spotted figures closing in—Hades soldiers, their dark insignias catching the dim light like shadows coming alive. Their expressions shifted rapidly, from curiosity to alarm as they realized what was happening. 

They swamped him like roll tides. Rough hands grabbed at his arms, his collar, trying to pry him away. Trying to drag him down. Nikolai’s vision blurred with movement—boots pounding the floor, voices rising in tandem—but he didn’t stay down. He couldn’t stay down.

Because anger? Anger could build. Anger could fight. 

And Nikolai fought like hell. He wrenched free from one grip, only for another to clamp down on his shoulder. He lashed out, shoving one soldier back while trying to dislodge the boy still clinging to him. They were shouting at him, hands clawing to restrain him, but it didn’t matter.

He didn’t care.

That was until he saw him.

Out of the corner of his eye, just beyond the periphery of the chaos, a figure turned the corner at the far end of the hall. Time seemed to freeze as the noise around him dulled into a muffled hum as his gaze locked onto the older boy. It had been years. Long enough for faces to blur and memories to fade, but there was no mistaking those eyes.

Those eyes.

They were his own, but they weren’t. 

Because these blue ones held no regret. No shame. 

“Mikhael,” the name slipped from his lips like sandpaper.

The soldiers clawing at him blurred into the background. All he could see was the sharp angles of his brother’s face illuminated under the dim corridor lights. Nikolai could tell that the years hadn’t dulled him. If anything, they sculpted him razor-sharp. His frame broader, his movements precise. And then Mikhael turned his head—just slightly. Just enough for their gazes to meet. 

Nikolai stopped breathing.

For a moment, Nikolai thought his brother might say something, do something—anything. But Mikhael kept walking. He didn’t stop. Didn’t acknowledge him. His eyes glazed over Nikolai like he was nothing more than a ghost.

Then, Nikolai felt it—a brief pause, a flicker of uncertainty as the soldiers surrounding him hesitated, their eyes darting toward Mikhael. Waiting. 

It was all Nikolai needed to break free, to shove past the hands that tried to pull him back.

His fist was already swinging before he even thought to stop—every ounce of anger, grief, hatred aimed at the older boy before him. But Mikhael didn’t flinch. He didn’t even blink. Like a bird, his feet barely seemed to touch the ground as he dodged Nikolai’s punch. There was no wasted motion, no panic in his movements. It was smooth, almost hypnotic.

Nikolai’s fist sailed past him, hitting nothing but air, leaving his chest wide open. 

That’s when Mikhael struck.

His knee came fast, slamming into Nikolai’s stomach. His body jerked forward only for Mikhael’s hand to shoot out and grabbed him by the throat and hoisted him off the ground. Nikolai clawed at Mikhael’s wrist, his nails digging into the skin, his feet kicking helplessly, scraping against the wall before Mikhael slammed him back against it by his throat. 

“Mikhael,” he sputtered, choking on his own spit, the word barely audible over the pounding in his ears. His vision, blurring. 

Mikhael didn’t even look at him. His gaze shifted toward the boy from the shooting range.

“Ren,” Mikhael said, his voice steady, quiet, as if he was bored. “Get Gunther.”

“I’m gonna kill you,” Nikolai choked out. His nails digging deeper, desperate. Futile. 

And just like that, Mikhael finally looked at him. Really look at him. His lips curved into something resembling a smile—no. Amusement. Like he was toying with him. Like he was having fun. Savoring this moment. 

Then, his fingers tightened around Nikolai’s throat, cutting off what little air he had left. Nikolai’s vision darkened, the edges fraying into black as Mikhael leaned in. His breath, warm, brushed against Nikolai’s ear as he whispered, gently, “I’m right here, Niko.”

Humiliation burned through Nikolai. His chest heaved, and then he began to thrash, wild and frantic, like a cornered animal. His arms flailed, his fists pounding uselessly against Mikhael’s arm. His legs kicking, searching for something solid, something to push off.  

“Let me go—” Nikolai rasped. His words broke, jagged, buried beneath his own gasps.

Suddenly, pain. Sharp. Blinding pain when Mikhael’s hand struck the side of his head. His world tilted. Spun and blurred and folded in on itself until darkness engulfed him whole.

Chapter Text

Nikolai had the same dream again. 

The one with olive green drapes and wooden horses. Him, lost in the world of his own make-believe while Mikhael sat beside him, all warm eyes and sunshine. 

“You’re getting better,” Mikhael said. “Almost looks like a real horse this time.”

Nikolai laughed. “Shut up. It does look like a horse.”

“Sure it does,” Mikhael teased, leaning over to look more closely. “Just maybe not a healthy horse.”

Nikolai threw wood shavings at him, laughter spilling from his lips, carefree, unrestrained. Mikhael ducked, or pretended to, his hands swiping through the air, batting away the stray pieces. Sunlight caught in his hair, glinting off the messy strands, gold against chestnut, and for a moment, everything felt light—effortless, like it had always been this way, like it always would be.

Nikolai turned back to the carving, knife in hand, lips pressed, as he focused on the legs of the wooden horse. The blade slipped. A sharp sting. His breath hitched, and the knife clattered to the floor, blood welling from the tip of his finger, crimson against pale skin.

“Ow,” he muttered, his voice small, shaky. His other hand clenched into a fist, knuckles white, as if he could will the pain away.

Mikhael was on him in an instant, his hand catching Nikolai’s before he could tuck it away. “Let me see,” he said, pulling Nikolai’s hand closer. He didn’t wait for permission. His thumb brushed against the tender skin just below the cut.

“I’m fine,” Nikolai mumbled, his eyes burning as he tried to pull free. But Mikhael didn’t let go. “It doesn’t even hurt.” 

Mikhael reached into his pocket and pulled out a handkerchief. He wrapped it around Nikolai’s finger with practiced ease, tying it off with a careful tug, like a hundred times before. 

“You’ve got to be more careful,” Mikhael said, voice quiet. Steady, concerned. “You can’t just rush through things, Niko.”

“I—I said I’m fine.” Nikolai's lips quivered, his eyes brimming with tears, welling until they spilled over. He tried to wipe them away, but they kept coming no matter how much he didn’t want them to. No matter how much he told himself to stop.

Mikhael moved without hesitation, his arms wrapped around Nikolai’s shoulders, pulling him closer. Soft words and gentle touches. His hands cradling the back of Nikolai’s head, the other pressed against his shoulder blade. He adjusted his hold. His touch, careful, as if Nikolai might slip through his fingers if he wasn’t careful.

“I know, I know,” Mikhael purred against his ear. “It doesn’t even hurt, right?”

Nikolai shook his head. He clung to Mikhael all teary-eyes and desperate. His fingers curled into the fabric of his brother’s shirt, like holding on could make the words true, could make this moment last. 

“You’re okay,” Mikhael whispered. “Because—”

I’m right here, Niko.

Nikolai’s eyes snapped open to the glare of fluorescent lights. His head was pounding. His body ached. The familiar scent of disinfectant filled his nostrils. He shook his head, wincing as pain shot down his neck, his thoughts scattered like sand to wind.

He groaned, trying to shift his weight, but his right hand jerked against something cold. There, tightly fastened around his wrist, was a handcuff secured to the metal bar of the bed, holding him firmly in place. 

“Great,” he muttered, letting his head fall back against the pillow as his gaze drifted to the whitewashed ceiling. As time dragged on, he laid there, stewing in anger, boiling in his humiliation, as the memory of his confrontation with Mikhael played on loop until his stomach churned.

“Fuck,” he yelled, yanking at the cuff again, the metal biting into his skin, letting it eat away at him, hoping that the pain would drown out the noise in his head. They needed to shut up, the thoughts he didn’t want, the ones that kept circling back, gnawing at his sanity, reminding him over and over again that—because of what he did, that because of him—Mikhael knew. 

He knew Nikolai was here looking for him and there was no undoing that. The element of surprise? Gone. Any chance of outmaneuvering him? Poof. Snuffed out. Extinguished. It was all gone the moment he charged in like the idiot he was.

What did he expect? That Mikhael would fall to his knees, begging for forgiveness? Ridiculous. He should’ve known better. Should’ve seen it for what it was. His temper, his stubbornness, his need to act first, think later. It always led him here. His knuckles whitened as he gripped the bedrail. 

And Cassian? What was the plan now?

Nikolai growled. 

His hand jerked against the cuff, the chain rattling violently against the bed frame. The metal dug into him, leaving it red and raw, but he didn’t care. Didn’t stop. He yanked at it again, harder and harder, as though sheer force could somehow shatter steel, until suddenly—

The door slammed open and Nikolai’s heart dropped.

There, like fire and hail, was Commander Dallas with Captain Gunther close behind.

Dallas wore that same infuriating smile he was known for—the kind that teetered on the verge of mockery, like he was in on a joke no one else could hear. And Captain Gunther? Nikolai didn’t look. He didn’t want to know. 

“Well, look who’s awake,” Commander Dallas said, his voice light, playful. “How’s my favorite troublemaker feeling? Rested? Refreshed?”

Nikolai didn’t answer, his jaw tightening as Dallas moved closer, his hands clasped casually behind his back like he had all the time in the world.

“No witty comeback?” Dallas tilted his head, feigning disappointment. “Shame. I was hoping for a little more spirit after all that bravado in the halls.”

Captain Gunther stood by the door, arms crossed, his gaze fixed on Nikolai, unblinking. He didn’t speak. Not a sound. He just stood there, watching. Listening. 

Commander Dallas’s smile slipped, sudden, like the flick of a knife. His face hardened, his tone dropped. “Let’s get one thing straight.” He moved fast, grabbing the front of Nikolai’s shirt and yanking him forward until their faces were inches apart. “You ever pull something like that again—starting fights, inciting chaos, dragging my army’s reputation through the mud—and I will make sure you regret it. I don’t believe in the theatrics of Ares, stringing people up for public spectacle. I handle my business in private. But if that’s what it takes to get through that thick skull of yours? I’ll do it. Gladly. And when I’m done with you, I’ll make sure to give Hades a round with you, too.”

And just as quickly, Dallas shoved Nikolai back, his head hit the pillow. Then, Dallas reached out, brushing the wrinkles from Nikolai’s collar affectionately, his smile returning like a mask slipping back into place.

“There we go,” Dallas said, his voice syrup-sweet. “Good as new.”

Nikolai stared at him, his chest tightening, heavy. Uneasy. 

“Now,” Dallas continued, stepping back, “whatever family drama you’ve got going on with Mikhael, keep it to yourself. Hate him, kill him. I don’t care. But if you lose control again and jeopardize my army…” He paused. His head tilting to the side, his smile never leaving his face. “Let’s not get too lost in the details. I think you get the picture.” He tugged at the cuffs of his sleeves, smoothing them out. “Is that right, Nikolai?”

Nikolai nodded slowly, the words catching in his throat, his voice coming out hoarse. “Yes, sir.”

“Good boy.” Dallas’s smile widened, but it didn’t feel like a compliment.

Then Nikolai blurted, “You knew? You knew Mikhael was my brother?”

Commander Dallas blinked with mock surprise. “Of course. Why do you think I recruited you?”

Nikolai froze. “What?”

“Think about it.” Dallas gestured vaguely, as though it were obvious. “A chance to piss off Mikhael? Too good to pass up. And you won your trial, so it was a win-win. No hard feelings, yes?”

Nikolai’s mouth fell open, stunned into silence by the sheer audacity of his commanding officer, trying to make sense of what he’d just heard. A chance to piss off Mikhael? That’s what this was about? His recruitment, his trial, all of it—just some petty game to Dallas. He clenched his fist. And before he knew it, the words tumbled out before he could stop them.

“Fuck you.” His eyes shooting daggers at Dallas. “Using me to piss off Mikhael? That’s your plan? Fuck you. ”

Commander Dallas watched him for a beat, clearly enjoying his reaction, before he closed the distance between them in an instant. His hand shot out, dragging Nikolai by the front of his shirt until Nikolai was within arm’s reach.

“What?” Slap.

The slap came fast, hard, snapping Nikolai’s head to the side. Pain, flaring hot, seared across his face, radiating down his jaw, leaving him stunned. 

“Did?” Slap.

His face jerked again. Another slap, same place.  The sting spread like wildfire, his face pulsing, vision blurring.

“You?” Slap.

The next one sent him stumbling, his ears ringing, his body pulling back, trying to get away, only for Dallas to drag him right back.

“Say?” Slap.

The last one sent his world reeling. For a moment, he didn’t think at all. His mind, blank. His vision, faint. His being, entirely consumed by the thought of—

You deserve this.

You rushed in. 

You let Mikhael see you. 

You ruined everything.

“I can’t hear you,” Dallas said. “Say it again.” His hand raised, arm pulled back, he didn’t wait for an answer. But before another blow could land, a hand shot out—grabbing Dallas’s wrist mid-air.

Captain Gunther.

Dallas turned his head slowly. His eyes narrowed as they locked onto Gunther. The two men stared at each other. For a moment, no one moved. Then, Gunther’s hand released Dallas’s wrist and stepped back. His jaw clenched shut. Dallas didn’t move immediately. His arm stayed raised, his eyes boring into Gunther like he was weighting the moment. Finally, with an almost theatrical slowness, he lowered his hand, his eyes still trained on Gunther. His grip loosened, and Nikolai was sent sprawling back onto the bed.

Dallas adjusted his cuff again, tugging it back into place. 

“Let me make something painfully clear to you, Nikolai. You’re my soldier. I’ll use you however I see fit. If I want to use you to piss off Mikhael—even if it’s pointless now, seeing as there’s no love lost between you two—I’ll do it anyway. Because I can. Because that’s what it means to be a commander. Your lives? They’re mine to do as I please. That’s the reality of this place.”

He shook out his hand, his fingers flexing as if to shake off the sting of the blows he’d just delivered. “You think being a commander is about pride? About ego? It’s not. It’s about control. Responsibility. Power. And yes, the choices we make sometimes don’t feel right, but they always serve a purpose. Even if it’s unfathomable to you.”

Dallas paused, his eyes narrowing slightly. “And you, do you think I fell into this position? You think I got handed a commander’s badge one day because I smiled the right way or kissed the right boots? No, Nikolai. I was once just like you. A snot-nosed brat, full of fire, full of pride, thinking I could charge my way to the top.”

He sighed, straightening his uniform with a sharp tug. “But I learned. If you want to survive in this school—in this world—you put your head down. You do your time. You learn what it means to be a soldier. To give up yourself. Your goals. Your dreams. Your life. Your entire being. You strip yourself of everything that makes you you so you can become someone greater. Someone who can lead. Someone who can show patience, think with reason, not emotion. Because that’s the only way you win. That’s the only way you survive.”

Dallas’s gaze hardened. “This is the Vanguard. This is Command School. If you want to be cannon fodder, then leave. Walk out now. Because, I swear Nikolai, if you keep this up, you’re going to realize that I was right—that it wasn’t me or this place that broke you. It’ll be you. And when that happens, just remember that I warned you.” 

Nikolai’s fist clenched against the bed frame. He wanted to argue, to shout, to tell Dallas to go to hell. But he couldn’t. His jaw ached, his face throbbed, and the words strangled his throat, choking him. Because part of him knew—just maybe—that Dallas wasn’t wrong. That for all his fire, he’d burn himself out. 

He bit the inside of his cheek, the metallic taste of blood grounding him. Keeping him from slipping further into the swirl of anger and contempt. But his silence didn’t matter. Dallas had already decided that there was nothing left to say.

His gaze flicked over Nikolai one last time before he turned on his heel, making his way toward the door. Just as it seemed he was done, he paused mid-step, tilting his head as though a thought had struck him.

“Oh, I forgot to mention,” Dallas said over his shoulder. “I expect you in tip-top shape tomorrow morning. You’ve got the honor of addressing the entire army about your little outburst at Hades. Congratulations.”

Nikolai winced as he moved his jaw. “The whole army?”

Dallas nodded, grinning. “The entire army. And hey,” he said, swinging an arm around Gunther’s shoulders, “at least this time around, no one will be talking about Gunther anymore. Isn’t that nice?”

Captain Gunther grunted, his expression stiff, his shoulders rigid as Dallas gave him a light pat on the back.

“Bummer you didn’t at least land a hit on Mikhael,” Dallas mused with mock regret as he turned to leave. “Would’ve made my day.”

With that, Commander Dallas strode out, boots heavy against cold floor. The door shut behind him, leaving him alone with Captain Gunther, who stood there, his eyes somewhere else. The dim light caught the edges of his figure, casting long shadows on the wall, but he didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Nikolai’s fingers twitched, his hand lifting to touch his face, but he stopped short, letting it drop back to his side. 

Finally, Gunther looked up, his eyes meeting Nikolai’s for the first time since he walked in.

Chapter Text

Nikolai watched the captain, his stare catching on the tightness in his jaw, the way he stood there. Contemplating. And then Nikolai’s eyes dropped to the floor. To the bed frame. To the frayed seams of the bedsheet. Anywhere else.  He couldn’t keep looking. Couldn’t keep staring at the eyes that pulled him together when all he wanted was to come undone. 

Then, Gunther moved. His back to Nikolai, his hands to cabinet doors, a clink of glass, the rustle of bandages. Nikolai watched him rummaging through them as if nothing happened, as if Nikolai hadn’t thrown everything Gunther said to hell and back.

“I—” Nikolai stopped himself. 

What was there to say?

That he was sorry?

No, he wouldn’t lie to Gunther.

He meant to run in there. He knew exactly what he was doing. And even if he apologized, would it even matter? Nikolai gritted his teeth. Not really. Sorry wouldn’t have meant anything now. It was pointless. It couldn’t fix this. Sorry was cheap, and Gunther? He deserved more than that—so why wasn’t he saying anything? Why didn’t Gunther just yell at him—tear into him, tell him that he screwed up, that he was an idiot? 

Why wasn’t he angry?

He should be. 

I deserve it. 

But Captain Gunther didn’t yell. Instead, he handed Nikolai an ice pack and turned away in silence. He crossed the room, his hand finding a chair in the corner. The scrape of wood against tile as he dragged it over and sat down. His arms on his knees, his fist clenched tight. His eyes locked on Nikolai. 

“Your face,” Gunther said finally, nodding toward the ice pack in Nikolai’s hand. 

Nikolai blinked, his fingers tightened around the cold compress before the words registered.

“Oh—right,” he winced as the cold met his cheek. “Thank you.”

Gunther said nothing. 

No lecture, no anger, no disappointment laid bare in words. 

Just silence.

He hated it. Wanted to break it. Wanted the captain to snap. To call him reckless. Careless. A failure. A disgrace. He wanted to hear it, feel it. Wanted Gunther to lash out, to punish him, to hurt him. To make it real. To remind him exactly where he stood, where the line was, what he’d crossed. At least then, that god awful feeling in his chest might loosen up. At least then, it would feel right.

But Gunther wasn’t Dallas and Nikolai wasn’t sure what to make of the silence.

Because if Gunther wasn’t angry, if he wasn’t hurt or frustrated—then was he… was he done with him? Nausea coiled at the pit of his stomach. He wanted to ask, but the words wouldn’t come out. It crawled under his skin, into his lungs, making its home between guilt and shame. For the first time, Nikolai wondered if he’d broken something between them. 

“Captain, I—” Nikolai started again, his hand squeezing the ice pack, trying to force the words out.  “I just wanted to say that—”

Gunther held up his hand. “I know,” he said in a low voice, his gaze pinning Nikolai where he sat. “You’re sorry. I know.”

Nikolai closed his mouth and looked away. His eyes on the floor, wishing Gunther would let him finish, because he needed to apologize—to say it out loud. But it was clear that the captain wasn’t in the mood to entertain his words. Not this time. And maybe that was the point. Maybe Gunther didn’t want his apologies. He’d pushed too far, burned too many bridges, dug himself too deep.

Who was he to ask for forgiveness? So, he didn’t. He stayed quiet. 

A moment passed in silence between them before Gunther stood and walked to the cabinet to grab another ice pack. He activated it with a sharp crack and swapped it for the one in Nikolai’s hand, then turned and tossed the old one into a nearby waste bin with a soft thud.

Gunther’s eyes flicked down to the handcuff on Nikolai’s wrist, eyeing the red marks etched into his skin where the metal had held him for far too long. He stood there, the key in his hand, his thumb pressing into it like he was thinking it over. Then, with a soft click, the cuff was off.

“Stay put.” Gunther’s voice cut through the quiet. Flat. Cold. A command, not a request. But then, just for a second, the tension in his face slipped and he exhaled. “I’ll be back for you in the morning.” 

Gunther turned, walking toward the door. His fingers curled around the handle, hesitating just long enough for Nikolai to wonder if he’d look back. Say more. But he didn’t. And the door swung open all the same as faint light spilled into the room before it closed with a click, leaving Nikolai completely alone in the dark. 

—

Nikolai didn’t get much sleep. 

All night, he tossed and turned, thinking about all the things he shouldn’t have done, in all the ways he could’ve stopped himself. If he had just listened, if he had just walked away, if he had just… fuck.

He rolled onto his side. Then onto his back. Then onto his stomach. Then back onto his back. The ceiling blurred in the dark. He blinked, once, twice, dragging his hand down his face, trying to force sleep but sleep wouldn’t come. The thoughts wouldn’t stop. And Gunther—Gunther had looked at him like—like nothing. 

Like there was nothing left to say.

Like Nikolai wasn’t worth the breath it would take to say it. 

He squeezed his eyes shut. It didn’t help. He’d take anger. Disappointment. A goddamn fist to the face if it meant something—but this? It made him feel small. Empty. It hollowed him from the inside out. And there was nothing he could do about it. Absolutely nothing. 

He threw an arm over his face. His throat, tight. 

And tomorrow—

Tomorrow. 

Tomorrow, Dallas would make sure he felt even smaller. 

He wouldn’t let it be just an apology, wouldn’t let it be just words. Not after everything Nikolai had done. No, he’d want something more. He could already hear Dallas in his head, already picturing the way he’d be standing there, hands in his pocket, that infuriating grin stretched across his face. He’d make a spectacle of Nikolai. Make sure everyone saw what happened when someone crossed him.

Like Marcus.

His mind flashed back to Marcus. Kneeling. Blood in his mouth, gasping for breath. Dallas, standing over him, rolling his wrist, flicking off the blood from his knuckles like he had barely felt it.

A wave of nausea shot through Nikolai. 

He swallowed hard, forcing air into his lungs, forcing himself to focus on the weight of the blanket, the feel of the sheets beneath his fingertips. 

He wasn’t Marcus.

He wasn’t.

But he wasn’t stupid enough to think that meant anything.

He closed his eyes again, exhaling slowly. Trying to control his breathing.

Tomorrow.

Tomorrow.

Tomorrow.

He forced his eyes shut, turning into the pillow, hoping that if he lay still enough, if he held his breath and willed it hard enough—that maybe, sleep would finally pull him under. 

But sleep never came.

—

The next morning, Nikolai sat at the edge of the bed, his fingers pinching at the fabric of his uniform, rolling it between his fingertips, twisting it back and forth like he needed something to keep his hands busy. He tried breathing slowly through his nose while his foot tapped incessantly against the floor.

Gunther would be here soon. Nikolai glanced at the door and back to the floor. He wasn’t sure what he’d say—if he should say anything at all. Their last conversation had ended before Nikolai could get more than a word in. 

Suddenly, a sharp knock at the door cut through Nikolai’s thoughts. His fingers froze mid-motion against the fabric of his uniform. His pulse, already too fast, tripped over itself.

Gunther.

Nikolai pushed himself to his feet, smoothing his palms down his thighs, pressing out invisible creases. A pointless gesture. His uniform was already crisp, but his hands needed something to do. Something to keep them from shaking.

He squared his shoulders and then took a deep breath. “Come in.”

The door creaked open and Captain Gunther stood in the doorway, his shoulders rigid. His face, unreadable. Composed, as if nothing from yesterday had touched him at all. His eyes landed on Nikolai, assessing, then flicked down once—just once—as if checking that he was dressed and ready.

Nikolai’s chest felt tight, his throat dry, but he nodded. “Good morning, sir.”

Gunther nodded back, curt, clipped. “Are you ready?”

Nikolai hesitated. Not because he wasn’t, but because the answer didn’t feel like it mattered. Whether he was ready or not, today was coming for him all the same. “Yes, sir.”

Gunther stepped aside, holding the door open. “Let’s go.”

Nikolai followed him into the hall, matching his steps to Gunther’s, though something about it felt wrong. Off. Like slipping into a routine that had shifted just enough to make it unfamiliar. As they moved toward the Poseidon barracks, the feeling intensified. Déjà vu.

The same walk. The same dread wounding tightly in his gut.

But last time, Afton had been there. He hadn’t said much, just a few words here and there, but it had been enough to keep Nikolai’s feet moving when fear wanted to make him its prisoner. Gunther, though—he didn’t say anything. He walked ahead, face blank, eyes forward. 

And Nikolai had never felt so alone.

They stopped in front of the barracks.

Gunther reached for the door.

Before Nikolai could stop himself, his hand shot out, fingers catching on Gunther’s sleeve. He barely registered the motion—only the way Gunther froze beneath his touch, his body stiffened. 

Silence.

The moment stretched.

Nikolai’s eyes widened. His heart slammed against his ribs as he jerked his hand back, clenching his fist at his side, heat crawling up his neck. Stupid. That was stupid. What the hell was he thinking?

“I’m sorry—” he breathed, the words barely there.

Gunther shifted just enough to glance over his shoulder. His expression remained unreadable, unchanged. A single nod. His voice, softer now. “Are you ready?”

Nikolai dropped his gaze, inhaled sharply. His fingers twitching at his sides. He could run. He could say no. He could—the knot in his stomach churned painfully. But then he lifted his head and squared his shoulders.

“Yes,” he whispered, meeting Gunther’s gaze. “I’m ready.”

Gunther gave no indication of approval. No shift in expression. No sign of anything. He just turned back to the door, pushed it open, and stepped inside, with Nikolai following closely behind.

Chapter Text

The moment he stepped inside the barracks, it swallowed him, and all he could do was force himself to move. One foot in front of the other. One step at a time. And out in the corner of his eye, he could see that every soldier of Poseidon stood in perfect formation, their gazes locked ahead. And yet, he could feel them—the weight of forty pairs of eyes pressing down on him with every step of the way. He tried to ignore it, but it was so suffocating that he had to remind himself to breathe. But how could he, when every stolen glance, every subtle shift in posture, reminded him that they were nothing but vultures, ready to pick at his bones after Dallas was through with him.

And Gunther? Gunther wasn’t a paper man. He broke away without a word and moved to the front beside the other captains. He didn’t even spare him a glance. He just stood there, expressionless as ever. His figure, carved from stone.

Eventually, Nikolai fell into formation at the very back, trying his best to steady his breathing.

Seconds dragged.

The minutes bleed.

Silence.

Then, the heavy shudder of the door.

Every soldier snapped to attention, boots striking the floor in unison.

Commander Dallas entered.

His steps were slow, hands shoved in his pockets. His posture was razor-sharp. His gaze swept over the barracks, over the soldiers standing stiff-backed in perfect lines, over Gunther and the other captains. Then to Nikolai.

For a long moment, he said nothing. Just the faint twitch of his lips.

“Well,” Dallas drawled, almost indifferent. “I suppose there’s no point in delaying.”

He turned to face the room, and in an instant, the air thickened. His features hardened, and every trace of sarcasm was gone. What remained was cold. Stern. Deadly. 

“I assume you’ve all heard what happened last night.” He paced as he spoke, his eyes cutting through the room, lingering just long enough to make each one of his soldiers feel seen, exposed. “One of our own decided that the rules didn’t apply to him. He took a little stroll into Hades—without clearance, orders, or a single shred of thought.” A low, humorless chuckle escaped him. “And, as if that wasn’t enough, he picked a fight while he was at it. Not just with one Hades soldier, but multiple.” Dallas scoffed, shaking his head. “How convenient.” 

Deliberately, his eyes found Nikolai with ease and held him there. “They say every story has two sides,” he said, his tone light, conversational. “So, Nikolai, why don’t you come up here and enlighten us? Why did you decide to run into Hades and pick a fight—not just with one, but multiple Hades soldiers?” 

Nikolai hesitated. 

Not long enough for the others to notice—but Dallas did. 

Of course, he did. 

His eyes twitched, irritated, as if marking the hesitation for later. 

Quickly, Nikolai forced his legs to move before Dallas further mistook his hesitation for defiance.

When he reached the front, he barely had time to steel himself before Dallas walked in front of him and leaned in real slow, his breath brushing against Nikolai’s cheek. “Go on,” he purred, his voice was sickeningly sweet. “Share with the class.”

Nikolai cleared his throat and forced himself to stand taller, to ignore the way his hands clenched at his sides. “There’s no excuse for my actions, sir,” he managed to utter. “What I did was irrational and I deeply regret it—and I promise that it won’t happen again.”

“Regret,” Dallas said, leaning back, his voice dripping with mock approval. “That’s a fine start.”

Then—he moved. His hand snapped out, backhanding Nikolai with such force that the crack echoed through the barracks. 

Nikolai staggered. His head snapped to the side, the taste of blood flooding his mouth.

“I asked for an explanation,” he admonished. “Not an apology.”

Nikolai slowly straightened himself as he wiped the blood from the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand. His jaw ached, but he forced himself to meet Dallas’s gaze, his heart pounding in his chest. “I acted on impulse, sir,” he said, trying to steady his voice. “I let my emotions get the better of me. It was a mistake, and I take full responsibility.”

Dallas tilted his head, studying him for a beat before stepping back, hands clasped behind him as he began to pace. “Impulse,” he repeated, the word rolling bitterly off his tongue. “Emotions. Mistakes.”

His eyes darkened. His lips curled.

“Arrogance,” he spat, like the word itself disgusted him. Nikolai grimaced as he watched Dallas’s fist clench and unclench, as if he was forcing restraint where there was none.

His pace slowed. A sudden pivot. His gaze snapped back to Nikolai.

And for the first time, Nikolai saw it.

A glimpse behind the mask. 

Rage.

Unhinged, white rage.

And just like that, it was gone. The mask slipped back into place.

But Nikolai had seen it all too clearly. 

And he hated it. Hated that Dallas wanted him to see it. 

Wanted him to know exactly how close he was to the edge. How easily he could snap.

Worst of all? Nikolai’s body knew. It understood exactly what Dallas wanted him to feel.

Small. Trapped. Helpless.

And God help him—it was working.

“You’re lucky Hades chose not to report this,” Dallas snarled. “Lucky they didn’t demand your head on a platter. But don’t mistake their mercy for weakness. And don’t think for a second that I’ll be so lenient.”

Dallas clenched his teeth. Gathering himself. Letting the silence sit, letting it fester.

Then—his voice, low, cold. “Because here’s the truth, Nikolai. I don’t care about your reasons. I don’t care how noble, how urgent, how justified you think they were.” A pause. “You don’t break Vanguard’s rules. You don’t pick unsanctioned fights.”

Another beat. Then he sighed. “Which is why you’ll take your punishment. Right here. In front of everyone.” A glance, a flick of his fingers, gesturing to the room. “So they see, learn, and understand what happens when emotion overrides order.”

His head tilted, just slightly. “You’re fresh-faced. Green. But even you knew the rules, didn’t you?”

Nikolai’s jaw tightened. But he met Dallas’s gaze and held it. “Yes, sir.”

“And yet, you broke it anyway,” Dallas said dryly. 

“Yes, sir.”

“Then you understand why this is necessary.”

Dallas flicked his fingers. 

Gunther moved. 

A stool.

A strap.

The sight of it slammed into Nikolai like a tidal wave.

Gunther set the stool down. Handed Dallas the strap. Stepped back. His face, carved from ice.

“Under normal circumstances, this would be an expellable offense.” 

He turned, scanning the room. Making sure every soldier heard him.

“And not just expulsion. Not some dishonorable discharge where you pack your things and go home to dear mother.” His gaze settled back on Nikolai. “No. You all know what happens to rule-breakers.” 

Silence. His fingers drumming against his thighs.

“They’re sent to the borders to be a human wall,” Dallas said, enunciating each syllable like it was a death sentence. “A meat line of bodies standing to maintain our border and whatever else hell sees fit to throw at them.”

His grip on the strap tightened. “This here—this lesson—is the only thing standing between you and that fate.” His voice, sharp. Absolute. “Consider it a mercy. A warning. My first and last to every single one of you who’s itching to see what happens when you step out of line—when you break one of Vanguard’s fundamental rules. When you think you're untouchable. When you let arrogance speak louder than reason, because you think you know better. I’m here to tell you—you don’t,” he scoffed. “You don’t make the rules. You don’t decide what’s justified, what’s necessary. That’s my job. And if any of you are stupid enough to forget that, then let this be your one and only reminder.”

With a flick of his wrist, Dallas pointed the strap at Nikolai, then the stool. “Shirt off. Hands on the stool. Eyes forward.”

Nikolai’s pulse roared in his ears.

He barely heard the whispers, barely registered the shuffling of feet. The world was dead to him. All he could think about—all he could feel, was survival screaming at him to run. 

To bolt. 

Because maybe, just maybe—if he moved fast enough, if he acted before Dallas could react—he could make it.

But where?

There was nowhere else to go.

He shuddered.

Slowly, he forced himself to move. Cold dread slithered up his spine. His hands found the hem of his shirt. He pulled. Dragging the fabric over his head. The undershirt next. The cloth clung, damp with sweat.

Both fell at his feet.

The cold air pricked against his bare skin. 

He took a step. Then another.

Hands on the stool.

Fingers gripping the rim of the stool.

His back to Dallas.

His eyes forward, then on the floor. 

A mistake.

The strap hooked under his chin and lifted. His head followed.

“Eyes. Forward,” Dallas gritted through clench teeth.

Nikolai's breath hitched. His throat bobbed against the strap, but Dallas maintained his hold. Didn’t let him look away. Not yet. And that’s when it hit him. Dallas wanted him to see and feel the weight of every gaze. He wanted him to know, without question, that he had an audience. That his humiliation wasn’t just his own. It was theirs to witness. Theirs to remember. 

Heat coiled around Nikolai’s neck. Shame coiling even tighter. So he forced his eyes past them. Beyond the bodies. Beyond the stares, the smirks, the pity, and the fear—his own mirrored back at him.

His eyes to the wall.

To the only thing in the room that wouldn’t stare back. 

And yet, his gaze still caught on a few faces.

Afton.

Shoulders tensed. Eyes filled with concern. Nikolai looked away before he could see too much—before Afton could offer comforts he didn’t deserve.

Marcus.

Their eyes met for a second before Marcus dropped his gaze. But it was enough. Nikolai saw it. The pity. The quiet understanding neither of them would speak aloud. 

Nikolai’s fingers curled against the edge of the stool.

Dallas stepped behind him.

“You’re sixteen, correct?”

Nikolai’s jaw clenched. “Yes, sir.”

Dallas let the silence sit for a moment.

Then, he sighed. “Sixteen strokes it is.”

Dallas stepped behind Nikolai, shaking his head with a quiet chuckle—as if he was exhausted by the sheer stupidity of it all. 

“Some of you might think this is excessive.” His fingers flexed around the leather, testing its weight. 

“I disagree.” His voice darkened. “In fact, I think it’s merciful.”

He lifted the strap, letting it hang loosely from his grip before snapping it taut with a sharp flick of his wrist. The sound split through the air. Nikolai flinched and so did everyone else. 

“Because we all know what happens to reckless soldiers who don’t have discipline.”

His voice was flat.

“They die.”

The strap lifted.

And came down.

One.

The sound cracked through the barracks like a gunshot. White-hot fire tore across Nikolai’s back, searing deep, clawing through skin and muscle like a red-hot blade. His breath hitched, his fingers tightening around the stool’s edges, knuckles white.

He could take this.

He would take this.

Two.

Breathless. He squeezed his eyes shut. The second stroke landed sharper, deeper, layering over the first like a wound being ripped open before it even had time to scab.

Three.

He locked his jaw, forcing the pain down, willing himself to stay still, to stay silent. To breathe through it.

After all, he did this to himself.

This was his fault. 

Four.

His shoulders twitched. His grip slipped for half a second before he clenched harder. He could feel the sting of tears clawing at the edge of his peripheral vision.

Halfway was still so far. He didn’t know if he would make it. 

Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.

Five.

He bit the inside of his cheek, hard enough to taste blood. 

Focus on that. 

Not the pain. 

Not the way his muscles started spasming beneath the strap. 

Six.

His body jerked forward, spine arching as the strap carved into his skin. The pain was blinding. His fingers slipped against the stool’s edge before he tightened his grip again.

He could still hold on. 

He had to.

Seven.

Think before you act.

Eight.

A sharp cry broke from his throat before he could stop it. The strap landed higher this time, snapping across his shoulder blades. Pain bloomed deep, reaching past his skin, digging into his bones. His arms trembled. He could still fight this. He could still endure.

But why fight it?

What did he have left to prove?

Nine.

Another ragged breath escaped. He crushed it between his teeth, forcing it down, willing himself to stay in control. But his chest was heaving and the tears just wouldn’t stop coming. 

But what was worse than the pain was the realization that—that Dallas was right. 

That because of his temper, his emotions, his need to rationalize every reckless decision, he had done this to himself.

Ten.

His nails bit into the wood. A choked noise slipped out—too fast, too sudden for him to stop. His body tensed, his eyes squeezing shut. But it was too late. He could feel it slipping past his lips. Could feel the shame searing hot in his chest. He screwed his eyes shut, jaw locked so tight it throbbed. His vision swam.

He wasn’t going to cry.

He can’t.  

And yet, another ragged sob escaped before he could shove it down, but it didn’t matter. Not anymore.

Because if he didn’t learn, if he didn’t change, if he didn’t burn away the reckless, impulsive, weak part of himself—

It would get him killed.

Eleven.

Nikolai jerked so hard he almost lost his footing when the strap landed directly over a previous welt, splitting raw skin. His breath hitched—then broke. The sobs came hard, uncontrollable, shaking his shoulders, wracking through his chest in uneven, gasping heaves.

He tried—God, he tried—to shove it back down, to choke it off, to pretend it didn’t happen. But the tears wouldn’t stop. His shaking wouldn't stop. 

And Dallas didn’t pause.

Yet Nikolai knew—from the faintest shift in the air, from the silence stretching between each stroke—that Dallas had been waiting for it.

To hear him cry. 

To hear him break.

Twelve.

The pain burrowed deep, clawing its way past flesh, past muscle, past bone. His chest shook with uneven breaths, his vision swimming with tears. He couldn’t stop shaking. Couldn’t stop the way his shoulders curled inward, instinct screaming at him to protect what was left of himself.

He could feel their eyes on him. Could imagine the smirks, the sneers, the pity—

Thirteen.

Another sob ripped from him. His body was betraying him now, giving Dallas exactly what he wanted. He wondered if he looked pathetic. Half expecting to meet sneers, smirks—vindication in their eyes.

Except when he was brave enough to steal a quick glance—even just for a second—

No one was watching.

Not a single one.

Their heads were down. Eyes averted.

As if they, too, couldn’t bear to look.

Something about that made him choked up. 

He had expected them to revel in his humiliation. But no one was looking at him like that.

No one was looking at him at all.

Afton stood near the front, stiff, hands clenched into tight fists. Angry. Not at him, but for him.

And Marcus—Marcus, who had every reason to enjoy this, who had no reason to care—looked away.

Fourteen.

The next blow sent him staggering against the stool. His knees buckled, and for the first time—he stumbled. 

Fell.

His knees hit the floor. Hands splayed, fingers grasping at nothing. His face hovered just a breath away from the ground.

A cold silence filled the air.

Dallas didn’t scoff. Didn’t mock. Didn’t gloat.

He only said, “Position.”

Nikolai swallowed past the lump in his throat. His limbs trembled, fire tearing through his back, his body screaming for him to stay down, but he forced himself upright. Back into position. Hands gripping the stool so tight his fingers went numb.

He didn’t dissociate. Didn’t let his mind drift.

He took every stroke. Felt every ounce of pain. Let it bury itself deep into his skin, let it carve itself into his bones, let it remind him that this was his fault.

He had done this.

And he deserved every second of it.

Tears burned in his eyes. He barely stifled a sob before the next one came. 

Fifteen.

His knees shook, and his breath came in wet, gasping shudders. He hadn’t realized he’d stopped fighting the pain until tears burned hot against his skin as he watched the floor beneath him weep.

Sixteen.

The last ripped across his back like fire to paper. A wail wrenched from his throat. His hands slipped from the stool, his body nearly collapsing, his arms barely catching himself before he hit the floor again. His chest heaved, his breath uneven, his entire body trembling beneath the weight of pain and shame and guilt.

Then, nothing. 

His body swayed, muscles locked, too hurt to move, too drained to hold himself upright. 

Was it over?

Boots shuffled against the floor. 

Dallas crouched in front of Nikolai, slow, deliberate, until they were eye level. His fingers moved next, threading into Nikolai’s hair affectionately. Nikolai wanted to puke. Then, with excruciating slowness, he pulled. Not enough to hurt. Just enough to force Nikolai’s head up, to make him look. To make him hold his gaze.

Dallas didn’t speak. Just stared. Silent. Patient. Letting his eyes prowl. Letting it drag over him and strip him down. Letting Nikolai realize how little control he had left.

They peered into him. Searching. Waiting. Calculating what, if anything, was left.

“Get dressed.” Was all Dallas said, before he stood up, the strap sliding from his hand into Gunther’s like an afterthought. 

Nikolai swallowed thickly, forcing himself upright, forcing his fingers to move even as they trembled, even as his body wailed in pain. He reached for his shirt, but the fabric felt foreign in his grip, heavier than it should’ve been. He fumbled with his undershirt, not even bothering to put it on—not that his fingers would comply anyway, and for a brief second, the humiliation crashed all over him again.

Somewhere beyond the ringing in his ears, Dallas was still speaking—something about discipline, responsibility, consequences. About why this had to happen. Thinly veiled threats wrapped in coy words about order.

Nikolai barely heard it. 

He barely made out the cadence of his voice, the hum of the barracks shifting. He was too busy concentrating on breathing through the pain. Trying his best to not fall apart again as he forced his arms through his sleeves. The fabric dragged agonizingly against his back. He winced. His fingers fumbled over the hem—weak, shaking—but he grit his teeth and yanked it down.

By the time Dallas dismissed them to breakfast, Nikolai was lightheaded, shaking. His vision flickering in and out of focus. The room emptied around him except for Dallas and the captains. 

Nikolai half-expected Dallas to leave, but he didn’t. He just stood there, his eyes giving Nikolai a once-over. Assessing. Until, finally, he spoke.

“You’ll live,” he said nonchalantly, before he turned to Gunther and nodded. “Take him to the infirmary. I want him on bed rest until he’s back on his feet.”

Gunther stepped forward and crouched down enough to hoist Nikolai’s arm over his shoulder. The movement sent a fresh torrent of pain through Nikolai, but he barely reacted—too drained, too spent to do anything but exist.

“You don’t need to be cuffed again, do you?” Dallas asked.

Nikolai stiffened. He shook his head before he caught himself. His voice, hoarse. “No, sir.”

Dallas chuckled. “See? You can be taught.” Then, with a lazy wave of his hand, he dismissed them. “Get him out of my sight.” 

“Yes, sir.” 

Gunther moved without a word. Nikolai barely had the strength to hold himself upright, his legs quivering beneath him. Gunther felt it. Without hesitation, he carefully adjusted his grip and shifted, bearing most—if not all—of Nikolai’s weight without a second thought. 

The moment they crossed the threshold, Gunther adjusted his hold, and Nikolai felt it.

A squeeze. 

Brief.

Barely there.

Nikolai wasn’t sure if it was intentional. If it meant anything at all.

But in that moment, when everything else had been stripped from him, when all that remained was pain, exhaustion, and the inescapable reality of his own humiliation—

He held onto it anyway.

Because if he didn’t, he wasn’t sure if he’d have anything left.

Because in the hollow of everything else, it was the only thing that didn’t hurt. 

Chapter Text

Nikolai pushed the washroom door open, its hinges groaning beneath the steady drip of leaking faucets. The washroom was mostly empty at this hour, save for the haze of steam and the scent of soap and something metallic clinging to the air. That’s why he had come. He wanted to be alone to scrub away the sweat, the exhaustion, the remnants of yesterday still clinging to his skin. But every step he took, his body protested in tandem. Each movement sent a sharp throb radiating through his back and shoulders. His limbs ached. The welts burned. But he could deal with that. He just needed a moment alone. 

As he made his way toward the lockers, fresh steam lazily rolled in through the dim space from the showers tucked in the back. His ears perked at the faint shuffle of movement, the quiet dribble of water. He could tell that he wasn’t alone, someone else was here. 

Nikolai rounded a row of lockers, trying his best to tug his shirt over his head despite the pain—and then he froze. It was Gunther. His back to Nikolai, a towel draped around his shoulders and waist. The captain hadn’t noticed him yet, too focused on pulling a clean shirt from his locker. For a second, Nikolai hesitated, torn between stepping forward and slipping out unnoticed.

Then Gunther shifted, the towel slipping from his shoulder just enough for Nikolai to see.

Welts.

Livid, red, welts, stretched across his back. Some still fresh, the edges inflamed. Angry. The skin split in places where the leather had bitten too deep. Others were older, fading into sickly shades of yellow and green. They made a mockery of his own. 

These ones? They were meant to last.

Nikolai’s mind short-circuited at the sight of it, his breath hitching. It wasn’t just a few bruises from training. No, this was fresh. This was—

Nikolai’s stomach churned, his legs weak, his hand shot out to grip the wall. 

Gunther flinched when he reached for the towel, his muscles tensing as if even simple movement was punishing. And that was when he noticed. His head turned, just enough for his eyes to catch Nikolai reflection in the mirror, frozen in place, eyes locked on his back.

Gunther's expression barely shifted, just a flicker of realization before he reached for his undershirt and pulled it over his head in one fluid motion.

A beat of silence stretched between them.

Gunther cleared his throat. “You’re up early.”

Nikolai blinked, snapped back to the present. His face burned, and he quickly looked away, suddenly too aware of himself, of the way he was standing there, staring at something he wasn’t supposed to see. 

“Yeah,” he muttered. “Didn’t want to deal with the crowd.”

Gunther hummed in acknowledgment, reaching for his jacket.

Nikolai hesitated. He shouldn’t ask. He knew he shouldn’t ask. But the words slipped out anyway.

“Did Dallas—”

Gunther exhaled through his nose, running a hand through his damp, dark hair. His expression remained impassive except for the tension lining his jaw.

“Dallas did what he needed to do as Commander.”

The words hit Nikolai like a punch to the gut.

He had expected a scoff, some kind of bitter remark, but there was no resentment in Gunther’s voice. Just matter of fact. 

And yet, it left him reeling.

He balled his fists, his nails digging into his palms, forcing himself to stay still. To think before he spoke. He wasn’t sure what bothered him more—the welts themselves or the way Gunther acted like he was fine. Like they were nothing but an inconvenience.

Gunther looked like he wanted to leave, but Nikolai couldn’t let him go just yet.

“So that’s it?” Nikolai grounded out, a bitter edge in his voice. “You’re just gonna let him do that to you?”

“Dallas is harsh,” he agreed, his voice giving nothing away. “But fair.”

Nikolai stiffened. “Fair?”

“More than most commanders,” Gunther responded, dragging the towel through his damp hair.

Nikolai scoffed, crossing his arms. “Right. So what the hell did you do to deserve that?” He gestured vaguely toward Gunther’s back. “Forget to shine your boots? Or let me guess, look at him the wrong way?”

Gunther turned back around to his locker, his hands digging through its content. “It’s none of your concern.”

“None of my concern?” His voice pitched. “You walk around like that and expect me not to ask?”

Gunther didn’t answer. Didn’t so much as acknowledge what he said.

Nikolai took a step forward. “What’d you do?”

Silence.

The longer Gunther refused to answer, the more his mind raced through every possibility, but none of them made sense. He knew Gunther. He knew how meticulous he was, how rarely he misstepped. This wasn’t insubordination. Not failure.

And then it hit him.

“It’s not because of—” Nikolai clenched his fists. No. No, it couldn’t be. But the more he turned it over and under in his head, the more it made sense. “It’s because of Hades, isn’t it?”

Gunther stilled. His grip on the edge of the locker tightened just enough that Nikolai caught it. 

Nikolai swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry. “Dallas punished you…because of me.”

Gunther let out a deep, weary breath. “No,” he said simply.

Nikolai blinked. “No?”

“It wasn’t because of you.” Gunther said, grabbing the rest of his uniform and tossing it on the bench behind him. “It was because of my failure to lead you properly.”

“That’s unfair.”

Gunther chuckled. “Is it?”

“Yes!” Nikolai snapped. “I was the one who ran into Hades. I was the one who started the fight—you didn’t do anything wrong!”

Gunther tilted his head. “Did I not?”

Nikolai’s jaw locked. “No. You didn’t.”

Gunther sighed, rubbing his temples. “You broke the rules, and that means one of two things. Either you didn’t understand them because I wasn’t clear, or I didn’t teach them to you well enough.” His gaze sharpened. “And that? That’s on me.”

“That’s—” Nikolai groaned. “Captain, do you even hear yourself right now?”

“I do.”

“Well, congratulations, because it’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.”

Gunther turned around and flashed him a look, the kind that made Nikolai’s stomach flip, like he was toeing a line he wasn’t meant to cross.

“You seem to have a lot of opinions right now,” he said, clipped.

Nikolai looked away. He knew that look, that subtle warning in Gunther’s eyes. He saw it. But the anger was louder.

“Yeah? Well, I hope Dallas burns in hell,” he bit out. “You say Dallas is fair like that’s supposed to mean something. As if that changes the fact that he—” Bile rising at the memory of fresh welts stretched across Gunther’s back. “That he did that to you, because of me.”

“Enough.” Gunther shot him a glare. “You don’t have to like him, but you will respect him.” 

Nikolai opened his mouth, but Gunther didn’t give him room to argue. “Commander Dallas is fair because he allows chances. Opportunities to grow past mistakes.” His gaze flickered downward, as if gathering his thoughts, before meeting Nikolai’s. “Even as a captain, there’s still plenty I need to learn in order to be someone worthy of the lives entrusted to me. Yours included. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Gunther’s words hit him like a hammer to the ribs. 

Because after everything Nikolai has put him through—all of his failures, all the ways he had let him down—his captain still stood there, reassuring him, telling him that he would bear the consequences without hesitation, without complaint, if it meant becoming someone worthy enough to lead him. Not because he had to, but because he chose to. But because he believed, with absolute certainty, that it was his duty to be better, not just for himself, but for Nikolai. 

The realization twisted something awful in the pit of his stomach.

For so long, Nikolai had braced for anger, for disappointment. For the resentment Gunther should have felt.

But there was none.

Just Gunther.

And for the first time, he wondered—

Is this what it takes to be the golden boy?

The perfect soldier. The captain everyone listened to. Respected. Revered.

Did he pay for it in blood?

Had he always paid for Nikolai’s mistakes in blood?

And how many times had no one even noticed?

The thought made him feel worse than anything Dallas had ever done to him.

Nikolai’s eyes stung. His chest ached. He wanted to argue, to protest, to let Gunther know that he didn’t deserve that. He wanted to tell him that this wasn’t his burden to bear. That he shouldn’t have to justify it. That his sacrifice was a lost cause, because Nikolai was a lost cause. That no matter how much Gunther tried, Nikolai would still find a way to fail him. 

But the words stuck, wedged between his teeth, because part of him knew that Gunther wasn’t looking for justification. 

He wasn’t making excuses. He simply believed it. 

Because what argument could stand against a man who had already made peace with being the scapegoat, so long as Nikolai learned? So instead, Nikolai scrambled for the only thing he could say, the only pathetic excuse for a protest that made it past his lips. 

“That doesn’t mean it’s fair.”

Gunther leveled him with a look. “It is fair.”

“How the hell is it fair?”

Gunther straightened, his eyes certain. “Because you are my responsibility.”

The words hit Nikolai harder than he expected, and he almost wished he didn’t ask. But Gunther didn’t stop there. 

“Your actions reflect my leadership. When you make mistakes, it shows my failure to guide you properly and demonstrates where I fall short. And if taking a few lashes means proving that I stand by my men, that I answer for their mistakes as if they were my own,” Gunther gave a slight shake of his head, a resigned sort of acceptance before he turned back to his locker. “Then that’s the price I pay.”

Nikolai forced himself to breathe, even as guilt ripped his heart open. “But you didn’t deserve that—it was my mistake, I did that—that’s why—why Dallas shouldn’t have come after you. It’s not fair—” He dropped his head, vision blurring. “It’s cruel.”

Gunther paused, his back to Nikolai. Then, slowly, he turned around.

His expression was cold as ice. 

“You think what happened to me was cruel?” His eyes narrowed. “You don’t know cruel.” 

His voice didn’t rise. It didn’t need to. “Cruel is sending soldiers into battle without the discipline to survive it. Cruel is watching men—boys—march onto the field knowing damn well they won’t come back. Cruel is a commander who doesn’t teach his soldiers control, who doesn’t make sure they know what’s at stake, who lets them believe they’re invincible—until they’re lying in the dirt with a bullet in their skull.”

“Cruel is sending dead men walking,” he whispered. “And calling it leadership.” 

For a split second, Nikolai saw it—a flicker of grief, like his own words had pulled him somewhere he couldn’t afford to linger. Then Gunther blinked and turned away, grabbing his pants and putting them on before he reached into his locker again to grab his belt and boots. 

Nikolai didn’t say anything as he watched Gunther slide his arms through the sleeves of his uniform jacket. Nikolai stood there, his throat dry, his words a tangled mess, because what the hell was he supposed to say to that? Especially since he knew Gunther was right. Admitting that, though? He didn’t want to. Not if it meant admitting that Dallas was right, too. 

And that was something Nikolai couldn’t stomach. 

To think that Dallas had been justified and that Gunther had somehow deserved such cruelty meant Nikolai had no right to be angry—because if he did, then he’d have to accept that there was no difference between what Gunther had just said and what Dallas had done to him. And Nikolai wasn’t ready to accept that.

And maybe Gunther knew. Maybe he saw it—the way Nikolai clung to his anger, the way he needed to believe that this was wrong. That it was unfair. Cruel. But if he did, he didn’t say so. Didn’t soften or reassured. Just let it sit between them, waiting for Nikolai to sort himself out. 

Then, with a quiet, bitter laugh, Gunther broke the silence. 

“I had a lot of anger in me once,” he confessed. “For a long time.”

Nikolai looked at him, skeptical. “Really?”

“Yes.” Gunther nodded as he sat down on the bench in front of Nikolai, his fingers lacing up his boots.  

“I was angry at my father. At the system. At every bastard who looked at me and decided I wasn’t worth the air I breathed.” Gunther looked away, his gaze distant. “My father was a commander. He was well-respected and feared by everyone. My mother?” Gunther chuckled, shaking his head. “She was just a maid. Raised from the countryside. Born to be a nobody, destined to die a nobody. But my father…” he snorted. “He loved her at one point. When it was convenient. When he needed a warm bed. But the moment she got pregnant…” 

His lips pressed together. “An illegitimate son wasn’t part of his plan.”

“How paternal of him,” Nikolai grumbled, feigning sarcasm for anger. 

“Indeed.”

“So what? He just pretended you didn’t exist?” 

“Oh, he acknowledged me,” Gunther said dryly. “Just not in a way that mattered. In fact, my very existence was an insult to him and he made sure I knew it, and the instructors, too.” His eyes grew dark. “So I spent years hating him. Hating everything about him. And I let that hatred drive me. I trained. I fought. I clawed my way here—and not because I was meant to, but because I refused to be defined by my birth.”

His eyes flickered back to Nikolai. “I know you’re angry, too. But the thing about anger is that when left unchecked becomes corrosive and eats you alive from the inside out.” His voice hardened. “Anger? It has to be controlled. Channeled. So take that anger, that pain, all that rage, and make it yours. Shape it into something that won’t break you the first time the world pushes back.”

For a moment, Nikolai didn’t know what to say. Gunther had always been the kind of man who took everything in stride without ever giving away what it cost. But now, the impossible was happening—Gunther was actually confiding in him. Not much. But a little. Gunther was human, and Nikolai had been allowed to see it. 

“And did it work?” Nikolai asked tentatively.

Gunther considered the question. Then, with a sheepish grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes, he said, “I’d like to think so.”

Nikolai snorted. “I think I’ve only ever seen you angry once.”

Gunther hummed. “Oh?”

“Yeah,” Nikolai nodded, looking away, suddenly embarrassed. “When we lost that scrimmage because of me.” 

Gunther pursed his lips, recalling the memory. “I’m not sure I’d consider that an accurate portrayal of my anger.”

“No?” Nikolai scoffed. “Could’ve fooled me. You made it very clear.”

 Gunther raised his eyebrow. “Did I?”

“You slapped me in front of the entire platoon.”

Gunther made a thoughtful noise. “Ah. That.”

“That,” Nikolai repeated flatly.

Gunther shrugged. “I wasn’t angry.”

“Right.” Nikolai rolled his eyes. “You just felt like hitting me?”

“You were arguing with me,” Gunther corrected. “In front of the entire platoon.”

Nikolai opened his mouth—then snapped it shut. He couldn’t argue with that. It was true.

Gunther nodded, as if expecting that reaction. “I didn’t hit you because I lost my temper. I hit you because words weren’t going to cut through that thick skull of yours.”

“And you think I understood after that?” Nikolai snorted.

Gunther gave him a knowing look. “You stopped arguing, didn’t you?”

“That’s a shit answer,” Nikolai scowled, his arms crossing over his chest. 

“No, it’s an honest one,” Gunther chuckled. “Because if I’d let that slide—if I let you question my authority in front of everyone—then it wouldn’t have stopped with you. Discipline only works if it’s absolute. The platoon needed to know their captain wasn’t someone they could talk back to.”

“You could have just told me that.”

Gunther casted Nikolai a look. “Would you have listened?”

Nikolai hesitated. He wanted to say yes and insist that if Gunther had just explained himself, things could’ve been different. But deep down, he knew that wasn’t true. Back then, he wouldn’t have heard a damn thing Gunther said. He would’ve still seen it as some overblown sense of authority trying to keep him in check, and that would’ve only made him angrier. 

Nikolai muttered something under his breath before he shook his head. “Are you ever gonna apologize for that?”

Gunther gave him a dry look. “Are you ever gonna apologize for running your mouth on your own accord?”

Nikolai opened his mouth—then shut it again.

Gunther smirked. “Thought so.”

A brief silence settled between them before Nikolai glanced at Gunther and looked at him. Really looked at him—at the way his posture had eased, the way his eyes softened, his shoulders giving way to something looser, less confined. Seeing Gunther at ease, even just a little, was strangely comforting.

And before he could let the moment slip away, Nikolai found himself asking, “You said recklessness bothers you?”

Gunther nodded. “It does.”

“Why?”

Gunther studied him for a long moment, then finally, he sighed, running a hand down his face. “Because recklessness is just another form of desperation.” His voice softened, like he wasn’t just talking about the scrimmage anymore. “And desperate soldiers make dead soldiers.”

Nikolai looked down at his feet. Almost ashamed of asking such an obvious question.

Gunther watched Nikolai. He could tell that there was something else on his mind, the way he was circling around something he wasn’t ready to say. So Gunther asked for him instead. 

“Do you think you’re reckless, Nikolai?”

Nikolai’s eyes twitched before he lifted his head, his eyes on Gunther before dropping it back down again to the floor. “I guess so.”

“How so?”

Nikolai’s jaw tightened. His shoulders tensed. He wasn’t expected to be asked that so bluntly, but he met Gunther’s gaze anyway and said, frustrated now, “I don’t know. Maybe because I clearly have a habit of throwing myself into situations without considering the repercussions.” He let out a humorless laugh, exasperated. “Let's see, there was the scrimmage, the washroom incident with Marcus, and now all this crap with Hades.”

Nikolai shook his head, upset with himself. “It’s not like I don’t know better. I do. But I still do it anyway. It’s like some part of me believes that I need to act first before someone else does, that if I don’t make the first move, I’ll lose whatever upper hand I have.”

He threw his hands up. “Hell, half the time, I don’t even know why I do it—like when Afton was trying to defend me in the hallway—I just pushed him away, and I didn’t mean it, but I did it anyway because I was upset with myself.” 

“And then with you—you talked to me, you listened to me, and yet, I still did whatever I wanted, knowing damn well the outcome.” His breaths came in shorter, sharper, like he couldn’t quite get enough air. “I should’ve listened.” His gaze held onto Gunther desperately. “I should’ve listened to you, but I didn’t and I’m sorry.” 

Gunther didn’t say anything right away. He just studied him, taking in the way his breaths came in too fast and shallow. The way his shoulders curled in, like he was waiting for a blow that wouldn’t come. 

And Nikolai? He thought that maybe Gunther wasn’t going to say anything at all. That maybe this was it. The confirmation Nikolai had been dreading, that the apology was too little, too late.  

But then Gunther looked at him, his eyes all warm and sure before he spoke. “I know,” he said. “I know you’re sorry. I knew it the second I walked into the infirmary.”

Gunther leaned forward, his arms on his knees, his hands clasped together in front of him. “I was angry,” he admitted. “Of course, I was. But I knew that you didn’t need my anger at that moment.”

“Why not? I deserve it,” Nikolai huffed.

Gunther clenched his jaw. “That’s not how this works, Nikolai.”

“Why not? You should be angry, you should hate me for what happened—after all, you got punished because of me.”

“Do you want me to?”

Nikolai’s breath hitched. His fist clenched shut. “I don’t—” He cut himself off, looking away. “I just—” His throat burned. “It’d be easier if you did.” 

“Easier for you, or easier for me?” Gunther arched his eyebrow. 

“It’s just—if I were you, I would.”

“I see,” Gunther looked at his hands thoughtfully before his gaze flicked back to Nikolai. “And if I did? If I hated you, if I blamed you—what would that change?”

Nikolai didn’t respond. He just stared at the floor.

“Would it make you feel better?” Gunther asked, his head cocked to the side. 

No answer.

“Would it make you stop?”

Nikolai looked up. Confused. “Stop what?”

“Throwing yourself into the fire.”

Nikolai winced. “No,” he whispered. “It wouldn’t stop me.”

“Then tell me, what purpose does it serve, aside from punishing yourself?”

Nikolai exhaled sharply. His insides, a mess. He hated how easily Gunther could strip him bare with nothing but words. “I don’t know,” he muttered, his voice hoarse. “Maybe that’s the point.”

Gunther didn’t look away. “To punish yourself?”

“Maybe.”

“And for what, exactly? What are you atoning for?”

Nikolai’s jaw tensed. “You already know.”

“I want to hear you say it.”

Nikolai’s head dropped. 

The world titled beneath his feet and Gunther waited.

“If you hated me,” he finally murmured, “then I wouldn’t have to wonder why you still care.”

“And if I do care?”

Nikolai’s shoulders jerked. But Gunther didn’t get him a chance to retreat. 

“If I care,” he said again. “Then what, Nikolai?”

His lips parted, but the words stuck like tar. He tried again, but his throat closed up, his jaw clenching as he squeezed his eyes shut. A sharp breath, then another. When he opened them, he forced the words out before it could knot in his throat.

“If you care, then that means I have something to lose and I don’t know how to deal with that.”

Gunther shook his head, letting out a quiet chuckle with no real amusement in them. “Then you figure out a way that doesn't require you to wallow in your self-pity and run headfirst into danger.”  His voice didn’t soften, didn’t offer comfort. “I have half a mind to knock some sense into you myself, but something tells me that Dallas did a good enough job for you to steer clear of making the same mistake twice.” 

Nikolai grimaced. 

“But tell me, Nikolai,” Gunther straightened up, his expression grim. “For all your recklessness, for all the risks you take—who are you trying to prove it to?”

The question landed like a blow Nikolai didn’t expect. He wanted to deflect, to say something snarky in turn, a non-answer, but Gunther was staring right through him, and he knew he wouldn’t get away with it. 

“My brother,” he breathed, wishing he hadn’t said it out loud. 

But Gunther didn’t look surprised. 

Nikolai averted his gaze. His eyes trained on the floor. “Everything I’ve done—it’s all because of him.”  Nikolai flexed his hand nervously at his sides. “When we were children, he killed them. Our parents. And there was nothing I could do about it.” His eyes narrowed. Spiteful. “So since then, I swore I’d never be that helpless again. That if I ever got the chance, I’d make him pay for what he did.” 

His eyes darkened. His voice, low. “And I don’t care what it takes. I’ll keep going until I’m strong enough to kill him.” Then, Nikolai’s eyes snapped to Gunther’s. “And I will kill him.” His eyes daring Gunther to say otherwise. 

But Gunther didn’t flinch. Didn’t look at him with judgment or disbelief. Just held his gaze and nodded. Like he already knew. “And then what?”

Nikolai blinked.

Gunther cocked his head to the side. “You kill him. You get your revenge. Then what?”

“I don’t know.” Nikolai shrugged, forcing nonchalance. “I haven’t thought that far.” A dry, bitter smile tugged at his lips as he snorted. “If I was lucky enough, a quick death. But if not, probably prison. Him, being the Republic’s dog and all. That must be worth something, right?” 

Gunther didn’t smile. Didn’t entertain the bitter humor in his words. Instead, he just said, “And if I tried to stop you?”

Nikolai’s eyes glazed over. All blood drained from his face. “Then I’ll kill you, too.”

Gunther held his stare and met the words with nothing but silence. As if Nikolai’s answer didn’t rattle him in the slightest. Suddenly, Gunther dropped his head and sighed, the sound cutting sharply in the air. 

“Bold of you to assume you could,” he said, lifting his head, his eyes glinting with amusement as he stood up to tuck in his shirt, his fingers looping his belt around his waist. “Perhaps, after you learn how to keep yourself out of trouble for more than five minutes, then maybe I’ll start worrying about your hitlist.” 

For a moment, Nikolai could feel the heat prickling at the back of his neck. Was Gunther laughing at him? His lips pressed into a thin line. 

“I could, you know,” he mumbled under his breath, wincing, as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other, his back protesting instantly.

Gunther shut his locker with an easy flick of his wrist. “Perhaps,” Gunther mused, glancing at Nikolai from the corner of his eyes. “But living like that—letting your entire existence hinge on a single death? That’s a hell of a way to live.”

Nikolai never thought about it that way. His revenge had always been the one certainty in his life. It was the only thing he could hold onto when everything else felt like it was slipping through his fingers. Because if he stripped away the excuses, the need for vengeance, the belief that all of this—the pain, the choices, the sacrifices—meant something… then all that remained was what he had done. 

Nikolai wasn’t sure if he could live with that and maybe that was what unsettled him the most.

Gunther made no move to wait for an answer. He simply adjusted his cuffs, rolling his shoulders back, as if the conversation had naturally reached its end. Then, without another word, he headed toward the door. Just as he passed by Nikolai, he reached out and ruffled Nikolai’s hair, leaving him stunned and completely caught off guard.

“Rest up,” Gunther said over his shoulder. “I’d hate for you to make terrible decisions while you’re exhausted. But you’re done with those, aren’t you?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Nikolai muttered under his breath.

Gunther stopped just short of the door, glancing back with an arched eyebrow.

Nikolai straightened. “…Yes, sir.”

“Good.” Gunther gave him a brief smile before turning on his heel, his boots tapping lightly against the tile. Nikolai should’ve let him leave, but before he could stop himself, he blurted out.

“Captain—wait.”

Gunther halted, glancing over his shoulder, a hand resting on the doorframe. “Hmm?”

“I—” he started, trying his best to steady his voice. “I’m going to do better.”

Gunther considered him for a beat, before he nodded. “I look forward to it.” 

The door clicked shut behind him, and the silence rushed in to fill the space he left. Nikolai stood there, the warmth of Gunther’s hand still lingered on his head as a small, reluctant smile tugged at his lips. 

Because for the first time in a long time, it felt like he could finally breathe again. 

Chapter Text

The sky bled gray over the training field while the clouds grew heavy with the threat of rain. Dirt clung to the soles of Nikolai’s boots as he jogged to formation as his lungs burned with every breath and his back ached beneath his uniform. 

Two weeks had passed since his conversation with Gunther in the washroom. 

Since then, he’d spent five days in the infirmary, alternating between sleep and pain. When the meds wore off, all he could do was drift in and out of the black pits of oblivion, counting down the seconds until the next dose numbed everything again.

When he’d finally returned to the barracks, his bunk had been exactly the same—except for the folded scrap of paper Afton had tapped on top of his pillow. Vacant, it said, in bold black letters, with a little doodle of a skull beneath it. It managed to drag both an audible snort from Nikolai and a smile he didn’t want anyone to see.

It felt nice—knowing that someone here had missed him, even if just a little.

Not that he’d ever say that aloud. When Afton asked if he’d seen the note, Nikolai only shrugged, his face burning as he stuffed it deeper into his pocket like it hadn’t already been there.

And when it was time for training, he’d learned that he was exempt from it until further notice. Of course, his exemption hadn’t been without protest—he’d cornered Gunther in the hallway, insisting that he was ready, only for the captain to reach out and grab him by the shoulder.

His fingers dug in just enough to hit the welts and bruises still healing beneath the surface.

Nikolai winced hard.

Gunther’s expression didn’t change. 

“No,” he said flatly and then he let go and walked off like the matter was settled—which, of course, in his eyes, it was. And Nikolai learned that the hard way when the captain caught him in the sparring ring with a soldier from Artemis a couple days later.

He hadn’t even landed a hit before Gunther hauled him off the training mat by the scruff of his neck like a misbehaving pup. Nikolai wanted to die right then and there from the embarrassment of it all. 

Even from where he was getting dragged, Nikolai could see the smirk on the Artemis soldier’s face clear as day.

But one look from Gunther and the guy stepped back immediately, hands raised as if to say it wasn’t me, while Nikolai had all but sputtered, legs scrambling for footing as Gunther shoved him out the ring and all the way back to his quarters, where he was promptly tossed over the desk for a swift dose of the captain’s belt. 

By the end of it, Nikolai was all but breathless, red-faced, and swearing up and down that he wouldn’t so much as glance at the sparring ring again even if God himself came down and gave him permission to. Then and only then did Gunther sat him down and threw a folder thick with military records and historical campaign reports in front of him.

“If you’re so eager to do something with your free time,” Gunther said, leaning over him, his right hand with the belt still wrapped around it pointing to the stack of documents. “Then you can come here after class and memorize every single major war strategy since the First War. Battle names, formations, outcomes—I want it all in your head before the week’s out.”

Nikolai opened his mouth to protest, “But—”

Before he could finish, Gunther grabbed his arm and yanked him out of the chair, slamming him back over the desk. The belt came down twice in rapid fire across Nikolai’s already sore backside. He barely managed to grit his teeth in time as a hiss slipped past his lips.

“Care to try that again?” Gunther said, the belt raised and ready.

“No, sir,” Nikolai ground out, his breath catching at the end.

Gunther waited a beat just long enough to make him sweat before finally lowering the belt. 

“Good,” he said flatly. “I suggest you sit down and start reading—unless you’d prefer to spend the rest of the month eating your meals standing up. If so, just say the word.”

Nikolai stiffly shook his head, the words sticking in his throat. He eased himself back into the chair with a wince, while the captain threaded his belt back into place and turned toward the door. 

He paused, dug into his coat pocket, then turned back around and tossed something at Nikolai who caught it without thinking.

A small, unwelcome warmth settled in Nikolai’s chest.

In his hand was a biscuit wrapped in parchment paper.

“Your mouth moves faster than your brain,” Gunther said. “Maybe this’ll keep it occupied for a bit.”

Nikolai swallowed, caught somewhere between sheepish uncertainty about whether he should accept the gift and surprise that his captain would give him something like this at all. “Thank you, sir.”

Gunther waved it off without looking back and let the door shut behind him. 

And so for the next week while the rest of his platoon trained on the field, Nikolai sat cross-legged on the sidelines with the folder in hand, eyes glazed over as he tried not to scream at the endless details of flanks, sieges, and counter offensives. At some point, he started dreaming in troop movements. 

By day three, he could recite the Battle of East Atlantic backward and forward—and had, much to Afton’s horror, made the mistake of asking what he was reading.

“Wow. Riveting stuff. Next time, do ask before you try to kill me with boredom. I’m too young and pretty to die like that,” Afton had said, flopping onto his bunk like he was mourning the death of Nikolai’s sanity.

Maybe he had. 

Because by day five, he found himself analyzing breakfast line order like it was a formation drill.

It was pathetic.

But even he had to admit—when the week was up, and he was finally cleared to return to training, he didn’t hesitate when Commander Dallas started drilling them on tactical scenarios. He had every answer down cold. Even Gunther gave him a single nod of approval, and Nikolai swore up and down that it didn’t mean anything—but Afton saw the way his ears turned pink and wouldn’t let it go for the rest of the day. 

“I’m impressed,” he’d whispered with a grin, “I knew you were a suck-up, but this is next-level.”

Nikolai rolled his eyes. “Shut up.”

“One nod from Gunther and you lit up like a beacon,” Afton smirked. “He really does have you well trained, hm?”

Afton only shut up after Nikolai threatened to strangle him with his canteen strap.

Later that same afternoon, Nikolai lingered by the edge of the training field as the rest of Poseidon dispersed for lunch. His boots were caked in mud, his uniform clung to his back. Off to the side, he spotted Captain Gunther talking to Captain Elias—a leaner man, about the same height but smaller in build, with cropped dirty-blond hair and an easy smile that contrasted Gunther’s usual scowl. They both stood there with Gunther holding a clipboard in one hand while gesturing with the other as Elias nodded along, arms crossed, and his face deep in thought. 

Whatever they were talking about looked serious—though, to be fair, Gunther always looked serious. Not once had Nikolai seen the captain smile or joke. And it’s certainly not because captains weren’t allowed to have a sense of humor. 

Take Captain Elias, for example, who once made his entire platoon do jumping jacks and shout, “I’m a star!” every time their arms shot out. Everyone had a field day when that happened. The whole training ground was a mess of laughter whenever they chanted on cue. Even Captain Elias couldn’t help but doubled over laughing while slapping one of his own soldiers on the back.

Nikolai had laughed too, but deep down, he was glad Captain Gunther wasn’t the type for that kind of juvenile punishment. If he was, Nikolai probably would’ve requested to be traded off in a heartbeat.

Nikolai wasn’t sure exactly why he was standing there, waiting. But then Elias must’ve said something, because Gunther’s eyes flicked in Nikolai’s direction and Nikolai immediately straightened, spine snapping upright like he’d been caught slouching. 

Gunther said something to Elias, who nodded, and then the two began walking toward him, heading back inside the school. As they passed, Captain Elias gave Nikolai a quick grin as if they were just old friends. Nikolai didn’t return it—he was too busy unconsciously holding his breath as Captain Gunther stopped right in front of him.

The captain looked at him expectantly and before Nikolai could talk himself out of it, he said, quickly, “Sir, I wanted to ask if I could return to training starting tomorrow.”

Gunther raised an eyebrow, and just like that, all certainty drained from Nikolai’s lungs.

“My back’s fully healed,” Nikolai added, though he immediately regretted it. The look Gunther gave him said otherwise.

“Is that so,” Gunther said, folding his arms.

Nikolai shifted. “Well… not fully. Maybe another week?”

Gunther didn’t answer right away. He just gave Nikolai a once-over before he gave a single short nod and that was all the confirmation Nikolai needed.

“Thank you, sir,” he said quickly, trying not to sound too eager. 

“Get battle ready,” Gunther said, already turning back toward the school. “You’ll be observing the scrimmage against Athena.”

Nikolai blinked. Wait—what?

He spun on his heel and jogged after the captain toward the door. “Sir—what do you mean observing?”

Gunther didn’t slow, opening the door for Nikolai to walk in first. “That’s what I said, isn’t it?”

“I mean—yes, but I just…” Nikolai stepped inside, waiting for Gunther to follow. “What exactly am I supposed to do there?”

Gunther let the door swing shut behind them. “You’ll be in the war room with me.”

Nikolai almost missed a step. “The war room?”

“Yes, where we observe all war games and scrimmages. It’s where we monitor everyone’s position and coordinate strategy through the comms. Why? You don’t want to?”

Nikolai flushed. “No, sir. I just—I just didn’t think I’d be allowed in there.”

“You’re not,” Gunther said simply, then added, “But I’m making an exception.”

“But like, why though?”

Gunther stopped walking and gave Nikolai a look that he came to recognize all too well. 

“I mean—why, sir ?” Nikolai corrected quickly. 

Gunther turned and resumed walking. “So that you can watch how things actually work. How calls are made in real time, with input from every single angle. How each decision is weighted, relayed, and executed.”

When they reached the end of the corridor, Gunther paused and turned to look at Nikolai, as if to make sure he was actually listening. “I want you to see what happens when people trust in each other even when the situation makes it impossible to. That trust is something you should consider if you ever want to lead others someday.”

Nikolai swallowed. Him? Leading others? He hadn’t thought that far ahead. The idea seemed laughable even after everything that had happened in the last couple weeks. No one would follow him. Not after all the mistakes he’d made. But looking at Gunther, Nikolai could tell he was dead serious. He meant it—that if Nikolai wanted to, he could.

Nikolai wasn’t sure how he felt about all that—the idea of him leading others. 

It just didn’t feel right. Having people rely on him and putting faith in his judgment? Trusting that he wouldn’t screw it up? Hell, half the time he didn’t even trust himself. But he wasn’t going to tell Gunther that, so he just nodded and Gunther didn’t push either except for a grunt of acknowledgement as if the conversation had already served its purpose.

Then, without another word, Gunther continued down the corridor toward their barracks, and Nikolai followed quietly behind—and for the first time in his life, he thought about what it might feel like to lead.

He didn’t know what to make of it yet, but as Nikolai kept pace with Gunther, he didn’t let the thought go. 

Chapter Text

When Nikolai stepped into the washroom, no one paid much attention. The overhead fluorescent lights flickered softly as steam still clung to the air, fogging the mirrors where one soldier whistled off-tune in front of it with his head bobbing as he ran a towel through damp hair. Another one was by the urinals cracking jokes that got a couple lazy chuckles in return.

Nikolai kept his eyes forward and walked past them toward the lockers tucked in the back.

When he arrived, most of the soldiers from Gunther’s platoon were already suited up with their combat uniforms on, boots laced. A few stragglers were still half-dressed sitting on the benches as they adjusted the straps on their gear or synced the last of their comms. Meanwhile, the rest of the locker room buzzed with chatter. Soldiers from other platoons loitered near their own lockers while kicking off their boots, laughing as they changed into evening clothes. Their voices were easy, unhurried.

By the time he got to his locker, Nikolai’s hands moved on their own—one was unbuckling his belt while the other hand pressed flat to the locker’s scanner, the faint blue light blinking once before the latch released with a soft hiss. He opened the locker and rummaged through the contents without really looking, letting his fingers brush against them until he felt the familiar smooth fabric of his NeuroSync Training Layer—or as everyone called it, skins—slipped between his fingers, its gray surface catching the light like oil.

He pulled it out halfway and stared at it.

Technically, he didn’t need it.

He wasn’t going into the scrimmage.

Still, the motion had been automatic since the skins were the first thing they wore beneath their combat uniform during war games. Without it, there’d be no real-time feedback. No simulated pain, no neural response, nothing to mimic exactly where and how you’d been hit. It was meant to train your body to react and feel like it had taken real damage without causing real harm.

Nikolai shoved it back into the locker.

He didn’t need it today.

Instead, his hand moved to the familiar coarse uniform and pulled it out in one motion, turning toward the bench behind him as the metal door swung shut with a dull clang.

He tossed the uniform down on the bench and, with his back to the locker, quickly pulled off his shirt and shrugged on the other—not because he was in a rush, but because the longer his back stayed exposed, the worse the stares felt. Not that it mattered anymore, since the bruises had faded somewhat, but he knew their yellowish silhouette still lingered enough to apparently garner a few fans.

Nikolai sighed.

It’d been a while since he’d come to the locker room when it was this crowded. Lately, he’d made a habit of timing things like showering during off-hours or changing when most were already gone. But today, he didn’t have much of a choice.

And now, judging by the few poorly hidden glances around him, it was some people’s first time getting a look. He caught one or two vaguely disappointed expressions—probably hoping for a better view.

Nikolai rolled his eyes.

Too bad for them.

They’d have to make do with the scowl planted firmly on his face instead.

He was halfway through zipping down his pants to tuck in the hem of his shirt when a flicker of movement caught the corner of his eye.

Afton.

He stepped in with his hair still wet with a towel slung around his neck. His shirt was unbuttoned with his skins peaking from beneath, its light-reactive grey catching the dim light with a faint shimmer. He was halfway through saying something to another soldier when his eyes met Nikolai’s.

Nikolai blinked.

His eyes took in the rest of Afton’s getup—his skins, his combat uniform, those half-laced boots, the whole ordeal.

Huh.

Did Captain Christof’s platoon have a scrimmage today, too?

But before Nikolai could ask, Afton blinked back at him, narrowed his eyes in confusion, and broke off mid-sentence to make a beeline toward him.

“Well, shit,” Afton said with mock dramatics, tilting his head as he gave Nikolai a once-over “Gunther letting you back into the game already?”

Nikolai cringed.

His voice wasn’t loud, but it carried.

A few soldiers nearby turned fully now, openly staring as the confusion thickened. Someone muttered, “Isn’t he still benched?” Another voice hissed, “Yeah, I hope so.”

Nikolai tried to ignore them as he finished tucking in his shirt when he gave Afton a dry look.

Afton’s eyebrows lifted once he peered at Nikolai’s uniform. “No skins? You trying to go in naked today? Trying to get shot raw or what?” Afton asked, mock-concerned. “I mean, I know you’ve got issues, but that’s a whole new level of masochism even for you.”

Nikolai exhaled through his nose as he zipped up his pants before reaching for his boots under the bench in front of him. “No, I’m not going in.”

Afton blinked again. “You’re not—?”

“No, I’m not,” Nikolai reaffirmed as he pulled his boots on and bent down to tie the shoelaces.

There was a beat before Afton stared at him like he’d grown a second head. “So… what for then?”

“I’m going to be in the war room,” Nikolai said quietly, making sure his voice was low enough that only Afton could hear. And the moment those same words left his mouth, Nikolai immediately braced for whatever dumb thing that was about to come out of Afton’s mouth.

Of course, Afton didn’t disappoint.

He let out a low whistle—loud enough to get a few curious glances. “Damn. You’re going to be in the war room with Gunther? I knew he liked you, but I didn’t know he liked-liked you.”

Nikolai groaned. He could already hear the whispers starting up again, their voices ranging from confusion, surprise—to maybe even a little bit of envy or annoyance.

It wasn’t like he asked for this.

Gunther told him to jump—and if there was anything Nikolai had learned over the past couple weeks, it was that when the captain told him to jump, he jumped. Simple as that. But from the way they were whispering about it all, he could tell that they clearly knew more about it than he did. What it implied. Being in the war room.

And if envy was any kind of indicator, then maybe this was a privilege... and if it was a privilege, Nikolai wasn’t entirely sure he’d done enough to deserve it.

He clenched his jaw at the thought and shoved the doubt down before it could show and turned his attention back to Afton—who grinned as he passed, and plopped himself down on the bench in front of him.

“You little teacher’s pet, you.”

Nikolai rolled his eyes. “Oh, shut up.”

Afton’s smirk grew as he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “You know, I’ve never seen someone fail upwards before.”

Nikolai snorted.

“Careful, though. Don’t let Marcus hear you’re in the war room. You gotta let him stretch first—hydrate, warm up his vocal cords, or whatever—because if he finds out you’re skipping the line, he’s gonna have another tantrum.”

“Skipping the line?” Nikolai chuckled as he slipped on his uniform jacket and began to button it up. “If he wanted to be in the war room, he could just ask the captain himself.”

Afton gave him a look. “That’s not how it works.”

“What do you mean—”

But before Nikolai could finish, Dax strolled over and bent over to sling an arm across Afton’s shoulders and ruffled his damp hair with the other. He was already suited up, his red hair half-heartedly slicked back like he gave up halfway through.

“Well, well, look who’s back from the dead,” Dax drawled, eyeing Nikolai’s half-buttoned combat uniform, brows furrowing. “Wait a minute—are you back in the war game?” Then his head snapped to Afton. “Hold up. Are you still subbing for him or not?”

Subbing?

Niklai blinked, caught off guard.

This was the first time he was hearing about that. So that’s who had taken his spot.

Afton laughed. “Does it look like I’m in my pajamas?”

Dax frowned. “Shit. I don’t know. With you, it’s hard to tell.”

“Rude,” Afton gasped. “This is premium, military-grade compression technology.”

“Standard grade,” Nikolai clarified.

“Exactly,” Afton said, gesturing to himself. “Military-grade because it only becomes premium when I wear it.”

“Right, right,” Dax said, rolling his eyes. “Should’ve known the quality improves by proximity to your ego.”

“Finally,” Afton said, satisfied. “Took you long enough to understand that.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Dax waved him off sarcastically before turning back to Nikolai, squinting again at the half-buttoned uniform. “But seriously—why’re you dressed like that? You’re not in the scrimmage, are you?” As he spoke, Dax dropped down onto the bench beside Afton with a thump.

Nikolai exhaled, long and slow, like he was already tired of having to explain himself again. “No,” he muttered. “I’ll be in the war room with the captain.”

“The war room?” Dax asked, confused, before turning to look at Afton. “Already?”

Afton nodded, almost impressed. “Yeah. Interesting, right?”

“Very,” Dax agreed before he looked back at Nikolai with something between amusement and disbelief. “Look at you, already moving up in the world, Mister Big Leagues.”

“Don’t start,” Nikolai scoffed, tugging the last button through the loop. “It’s really nothing—he’s just asking me to observe, that’s all.”

“Mhm,” Dax hummed, nudging Afton with his elbow. “We better start kissing up now before Nikolai starts assigning latrine duty.”

Nikolai groaned and stood up. “I’m leaving.”

“Look, the teacher’s pet doesn’t want to be late,” Afton teased.

“You want to take my spot?” Nikolai offered, throwing his hands in the air. “You can go stare at maps for an hour while Gunther says nothing and judges your every breath.”

“Pass,” Afton said immediately.

Dax nodded. “Hard pass.”

Nikolai rolled his eyes and started walking off. “That’s what I thought.”

He didn’t bother turning around when Afton yelled something after him and Dax barked a laugh. Nikolai just lifted one hand in a lazy wave and made his way out of the washroom, the sound of voices and laughter slowly fading behind him as he walked down the quieter hall that led toward the barracks.

He was just a few steps from the barrack door when something stopped him.

A voice.

Low.

Familiar.

Too familiar.

He narrowed his eyes. He knew that voice. But it couldn’t be—could it?

His eyes snapped to the source—a closed door just up ahead.

Gunther’s quarters.

The voice came again—muffled, but distinct.

He gradually stepped closer. Approaching the door as if a thread had been hooked behind his ribs. He didn’t even realized he was holding his breath until he stopped just outside the door.

And the voice, louder now, it sounded like—

Nikolai froze.

His throat went dry.

No.

That—that’s not right.

Why would he be here?

Him—here, of all places? In Gunther’s quarters?

His mind reeled. He told Gunther everything—about his betrayal, his plan—the hatred rotting away inside and now he’s here with him.

Nausea crawled up his throat.

But before he could stop himself, Nikolai pressed his ear lightly against the wall beside the door, heart pounding so loud it nearly drowned out everything else—including the faint creak of movement on the other side.

Shit.

The door opened.

And there—standing in the doorway—was Gunther, holding it open.

For Mikhael.

Chapter Text

Fear had two faces.

One told him he could take Mikhael down before anyone else could stop him. The other reminded him of what happened the first time he tried—with his fists raised, convinced that he could—only to be taught how easily fear could make him feel untouchable when it reminded him exactly how small he really was.

And the humiliation of everything that came afterwards? His punishment had been bad enough, but knowing how Gunther had taken the brunt of it too because of him—Nikolai clenched his fists. No. That couldn’t happen again.

Nikolai’s shoulders stiffened.

He looked up at Mikhael.

And like a mirror, Mikhael looked back with the kind of eyes you’d spare for a bug, or a wall, or a puddle beneath your boots. Eyes that recognized and dismissed him all at once. He hated those eyes. He wondered what fear would look like when it’d finally peel his brother’s face off and wear it instead.

Nikolai took a step forward.

“Nikolai.”

Gunther’s voice sliced through the fog in his head—and just like that, the edge of Nikolai’s vision widened until Mikhael’s face wasn’t the only thing in front of him. He saw the doorframe, the room, the faint movement of Gunther in his periphery. Reality started reassembling itself piece by piece.

Nikolai swallowed hard, wondering if his voice would come out right. “Sir.”

“Did you need something, Nikolai?” Gunther asked, his voice betraying nothing.

“No, sir. I was just waiting for you—out here, before the war game. Just wanted to you ask a few questions.” His eyes darted back to Mikhael, narrowing in disgust. “But it looks like you have company.”

“Indeed,” Gunther said, pushing the door wider. His movement was nonchalant, but it left no doubt about who commanded the space. “And that company,” he continued, his eyes flicking briefly toward Mikhael, “is on his way out.”

“Nikolai?” Gunther gave him a small tilt of his head, a subtle lift of his brows, as if to say, let him pass.

And then, with everything he had, Nikolai forced himself to step aside, telling himself that if not today, then tomorrow. And if not tomorrow, then the next. And if not the next, then the day after—until the day came when it wasn’t fear that wore his face, but death in his stead.

So he let Mikhael brush past him, their shoulders barely grazing.

Nikolai watched him go until he disappeared around the corner and then did Nikolai allow himself to breathe again—slowly at first, in and out, his fists clenching and unclenching. For a moment, he closed his eyes, willing the fire inside to die down before it consumed him like it had all the other times before.

Once he felt calm enough to trust himself again, Nikolai opened his eyes and found Gunther still standing there, watching him in silence with one hand still on the door, the other slipping casually into his pocket. His expression was unreadable, but his gaze said enough.

“Are you done?”

Nikolai straightened. “Sir?”

“That little episode you were having,” Gunther said, nodding toward the hall where Mikhael had gone. “Is it over?”

Nikolai’s jaw tightened. “Yes, sir.”

“We have a war game in fifteen minutes. Should I be worried?”

Nikolai shook his head. “No, sir.”

Gunther crossed his arms and regarded him for a moment. “Then tell me you’ve got yourself under control.”

“I do, sir.” Nikolai met his gaze. “It won’t happen again, sir.”

Gunther didn’t look convinced. His eyes swept down, then back up again, assessing. “See that it doesn’t.”

The captain turned around and stepped back into his quarters. Nikolai stood still for a beat before following him with his eyes as the captain crossed the room, grabbed a thin folder from his desk, and tucked it under his arm. When he returned to the doorway, he shut the door behind him with a soft click before turning on his heel and started down the corridor.

“With me, Nikolai.”

Nikolai blinked hard and quickly fell into step a few paces behind. The walk to Commander Dallas’s quarter was short and when they reached the black-painted door marked with a silver insignia, Gunther knocked twice.

The door opened almost immediately.

Commander Dallas stood in the doorway, backlit by low, amber light. This time, his usually loose hair had been slicked back. And although the hour was late and his collar was left undone, there was nothing disheveled about the commander. It was as if the day itself knew better than to touch him.

“Sir,” Gunther said, offering the folder. “Today’s scrimmage analysis and game strategy.”

Dallas reached and took the folder absently, while his eyes snapped to Nikolai, who straightened instinctively. He met Dallas’s eyes, trying his best to hold his gaze even if it felt like looking into the muzzle of a loaded gun. Only when Dallas opened the folder with his other hand did his eyes finally drop to the page, scanning the first few lines before flipping to the next.

“Well,” Dallas said, voice dry, mouth quirking with amusement, “Athena’s been running tighter drills. Their captain has grown—dare I say it?—competent. I suppose even miracles can happen.”

He turned to the next page. “You heard about their match against Artemis. I assume you’ve accounted for that?”

“I have,” Gunther said. “They pulled a soft push left and delayed their pivot. Artemis took the bait and collapsed early. By the time they repositioned, Athena had control of the objective.”

Dallas nodded once, flipping to the next page. “They’ll assume we’ve studied their footage and adjusted. It’s all assumption traps from here. They want you to recognize the pattern and react wrong. You’ll need a secondary pivot.”

“I’m planning for it,” Gunther replied. “Running mirrored formations for the open. No strong side. Rotations stay tight until first contact. We don’t commit until we’re sure.”

“They’ll test that,” Dallas murmured. “Quick tags. Partial reveals. Just enough to make you guess. And if they sense hesitation, they’ll try to drag the time out and strike late.”

Gunther nodded. “We’re not giving them a read. I’ve split the squad into three staggered response groups—primary holds formation, second floats, third acts on delay. If Athena stalls, we let them. No over-commits, no corrections unless verified.”

Dallas flipped to the final page. “Good. Just remember that Athena’s banking on predictability. We all know that the map won’t save you if they draw blue and you’re the interceptor. Since terrain’s random, spawn’s random, what’s left is pressure, so you force them to show their hand first.”

“They’ll have to.”

“Don’t chase ghosts because if you lose the read, you need to anchor hard and lock them out,” Dallas shut the folder with a soft snap and gave Gunther a pointed look. “Bait the bait, if you have to. And if one of theirs breaks formation, don’t just tag him—drop him hard. We all know that pain makes people reckless and irrational. He’ll scream for backup before he thinks. And when they come running, you cut them down too.”

Gunther gave a curt nod. “Yes, sir. Understood.”

It was the first time Nikolai had seen the commander like this. What lay beneath his theater of mocked cruelty. The precision. The tactician. The cold efficiency of a man who didn’t gamble—he made guarantees. And suddenly, it made sense—why a man like Gunther, who demanded reason in all things and despised excess in every form, would follow someone like Dallas.

Because Dallas, for all his sadism, never stood for cruelty alone. No. That was just the part he let them see. The spectacle. The misdirection. The noise meant to disguise what truly drove him—

Power.

Specifically, the power in the inevitability of his victory.

And it wasn’t because Dallas believed in Gunther’s strength alone. But because he believed in his own judgment—in his ability to choose the right person—the right weapon, and aim it exactly where it needed to strike. That was the real power. To turn capable men into extensions of his will.

And for the first time, Nikolai felt it.

Want.

To not just win—but to know, before it began, that you would.

Dallas turned and walked back into his quarters. He set the folder aside on the desk, sifting through the other scattered papers at the opposite edge of his desk, flipping a page, then another. “Bring me the post-scrimmage debrief once it’s over,” he said, distractedly. Then, with a wave of his hand as if they were already forgotten. “You’re dismissed.”

“Sir,” Gunther replied.

The captain turned around and walked down the corridor, his boots loud against the metal floor. Nikolai lingered a second longer, watching Dallas, as if he could catch a glimpse into how someone like him worked. Honestly, as much as he hated Dallas—he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t at least curious how a man like that moved through the world so certain it would yield.

“Nikolai,” Gunther said.

Nikolai blinked, almost embarrassed to be caught staring, and quickly turned around, jogging down the corridor to catch up to the captain.

The two of them walked in silence making their way out the barracks and into the corridor. Nikolai kept pace half a step behind, but his mind lagged far behind his body—back in the quarters, where his brother had stood in Gunther’s doorway.

What was he doing there?

Mikhael hadn’t looked surprised to see him there. Then again, why would he? Mikhael knew Nikolai was in Poseidon. Of course he’d expect to run into him eventually—even if unintentionally. But Gunther hadn’t looked surprised either. Like he’d known this would happen, because if Gunther had anticipated that Nikolai might see Mikhael and chose not to warn him, then maybe whatever Mikhael wanted from Gunther, or whatever Gunther wanted from Mikhael, was worth more than whatever Nikolai felt about it.

After all, Gunther knew that Nikolai would stop by.

So if privacy had been the goal, he’d have picked a better time. Could’ve met Mikhael elsewhere, later, after the match, when the halls were empty and the risk of being seen was slim.

But he hadn’t.

Nikolai wanted to ask why. But it wasn’t like he had the right to ask given their positions. Gunther didn’t owe him anything. And Nikolai wasn’t in a place to demand answers from his captain.

Still…

Nikolai stared at Gunther’s back as they walked. He should’ve expected this. How when you let your secrets out, you didn’t get to feel entitled to someone else protecting them. Just because he’d told Gunther about Mikhael didn’t mean Gunther wouldn’t act on it. That was the risk, wasn’t it? That the moment you open your mouth, you hand someone else a knife or a stepping stone on the way to something else they want more.

Either way, it was out now.

And Nikolai knew better than to expect anything back.

So no.

He wouldn’t ask Gunther why Mikhael was there, because whatever answer Gunther had wouldn’t matter anymore.

Nikolai would find out himself on his own terms.

After a couple minutes, they finally turned to the last corner leading to a reinforced door flanked by yellow hazard lighting, its face stamped with a single word in block white letters:

LOADING ZONE

The door hissed open, releasing a pulse of low white light as they stepped inside the industrial locker space lined with walls of gear, helmets hanging on magnetic racks, weapons locked behind steel-meshed lockers. The air smelled faintly of oil and iron and sweat.

The Bunk opened before them.

Officially, it was the pre-deployment loading dock. A staging chamber buried deep beneath the battlefield terrain where soldiers waited for the match to begin. But no one called it that. To every soldier who’d ever walked its steel floor before combat, it was just known as the “Bunk” or the “Bunker”. 

It was a vast subterranean chamber carved beneath the terrain itself. The floor was gridded steel, mesh plating that rattled faintly underfoot. It was designed to lift the platoon into the live terrain above once the match began. Inside, amber floodlights cast everything in deep shadow and gold edge, illuminating the soldiers of Poseidon’s platoon scattered around the chamber, talking in low voices, adjusting their comms, checking weapons and gear.

Once Gunther stepped in the reaction was immediate.

Every soldier straightened, the low hum of conversation evaporating in an instant as bodies moved in sync. In seconds, they’d formed a clean line across the chamber—shoulders squared, eyes forward, every gaze locked on Gunther.

“Sir!” came the collective call.

Gunther stood at the front for the silence to settle. Then he stepped forward as he made his way down the line of his platoon. Nikolai didn’t follow, he remained at the entry near the door with his hands behind his back, eyes forward. None of the soldiers looked at him.

Except Afton.

From his spot near the end of the line, Afton tilted his head just enough to catch Nikolai’s eye and gave him a quick wink and then in an instant, his expression shifted. Gone was the usual grin and casual irreverence. His mouth was set like stone, his whole posture drawn tight like a bow held just before release. It was the first time Nikolai saw Afton look like that. It was the first time he’d see Afton in combat. Briefly, he wondered how he’d perform.

“Positions will be assigned after the terrain pull,” Gunther said evenly. “Until then, I want every one of you tuned in. No chatter. Check your weapons, check your skins, check your comms. Mentally, you should already be on the field.”

The captain passed each soldier with his eyes forward, voice loud and clear. “Athena’s going to feint wide. They want to stretch our perimeter and make us chase. Expect staggered reveals. They’ll give you just enough to make you feel safe to engage.”

Gunther reached the end of the line and turned around to began his walk back to the front. “You don’t take the bait unless it’s verified. Not guessed. Not assumed. Verified by sight, by comm, or by your point man.” Once he reached the front, he turned around to face the platoon. “If you hear something, you call it. I don’t care if it’s the rock or the wind moving wrong—you communicate it immediately. You hesitate in any way shape or form, and I won’t hesitate to make sure that you know better for next time. We clear?”

“Yes, sir!” They responded in unison.

Gunther nodded, satisfied. “Prep phase starts in ninety. Lock in.”

He turned around without another word and walked out. Nikolai fell in behind him as the door hissed shut behind them.

The war rooms were located on a floor above the bunk. It was a level sealed off from the rest of the training complex, accessibly only to officers and observers cleared for command access. As they approached the reinforced checkpoint, a retinal scanner hummed quietly, and Gunther leaned in and the scanner scanned his eye before the door slid open.

Nikolai followed him in.

The war room was cold. Desolated, even. The room was lit by a soft, sterile blue of floor mounted LEDs that casted long shadows along the walls. At its center was the holo-desk, a long horizontal console that came to life as Gunther approached. At once, the AI recognized his neural signature as the lighting dimmed and the displays reconfigured.

Suddenly, the space adjusted itself to his command profile.

Minimal alerts. Pale blue overlays. Streamlined channels on the screen displayed various preferred presets where one feed tracked squad vitals, another showed comm frequencies, and a third synced to drone visuals over the terrain.

The terrain map hadn’t rendered yet, but the halo-desk shimmered with a default standby pattern with blank contours overlaid with placeholder grids. Blue markers blinked to life across the blank map. Poseidon’s soldiers were each tagged to a name and their vitals profile ran beneath each icon: oxygen levels, heart rate, stress markers. Afton’s pulse was steady. So was Dax’s. But not Marcus’s, oddly enough.

A soft chime snapped his attention to the holo-desk. Above the map was a coin hovering and spinning slowly midair. One face bore the trident crest of Poseidon, and the other was Athena’s owl in flight. Nikolai always thought that it was ironic that a coin flip could differentiate between winners and losers. That the outcome of war could hinge entirely on luck.

Overhead, the AI announced the start of match initiation:

“Both captains confirmed. Coin toss in progress.”

The coin spun faster until it became a blur of light. Nikolai watched it rotate, the light flickering across his face as his nerves spinned alongside the coin.

Then the coin gradually slow down to a stop.

HEADS — POSEIDON

The trident crest shone bright before fading into the background as a new display popped across the desk:

Terrain Selection Rights Assigned.

Another panel opened instantly, listing three terrains drawn randomly from the quarter’s pool:

Ruined Metro Grid

Fortified Forest

Crater Canyon

Gunther flicked two fingers forward over the interface. The selection locked.

“Terrain selection confirmed: Ruined Metro Grid.”

Nikolai sucked his teeth. Ruined Metro Grid? He did not expected that. Out of the three, it was easily the most chaotic and biggest terrain in the pool with half-demolished buildings, shattered overpasses, blind corners layered over blind corners. Visibility was a joke. Cover was everywhere and nowhere. It was the kind of map where a soldier could lose sight of a teammate twenty feet away.

Athena’s unpredictability would thrive.

They’d eat Poseidon alive.

Nikolai opened his mouth to say something, but Gunther cut him a look before a single word could leave it.

“I don’t want to hear a pep from you,” the captain said firmly. “You’re my eyes and ears today—and eyes and ears don’t make sound.”

Nikolai shut his mouth and swallowed whatever he'd been about to say. “…Yes, sir.”

“Athena has selected: Base Defenders. Objective placement begins now. Five-minute deployment window initiated.”

On the desk, the map began rendering its terrain in full detail. Sections of collapsed skyscrapers jutted from the ground while underground subway lines twisted beneath fractured streets. The enemy’s spawn zone lit up in red, flashing faintly as a countdown appeared: 4:59 and ticking.

“Objective: Capture the Flag. Athena must defend their objective for one hour or eliminate all opposing forces. Poseidon will serve as Interceptors. Victory conditions: Retrieve the flag and return it to base or annihilate the opposing force.”

The screen pulsed once more as the terrain fully rendered, but only Poseidon's deployment zone was visible—blue markers glowing across the bottom quadrant of the map. The rest of the grid remained a dark, unlit expanse. Athena's location wasn’t shown. And it wouldn’t be until someone landed a hit and tagged them.

Even then, tagging only triggered a brief red pulse at the enemy’s last known position before it vanished, giving no indication whether they stayed or moved. That’s what they called a ghost. A print of where someone had been the moment they were tagged with no promise that they were still there.

Nikolai remembered the first time he’d gotten it wrong during his first war game. He’d called out a “tag” on an enemy who was already gone, mistaking the term for any previous visual, not realizing it had to be immediate. A teammate had taken his word and pushed forward blind only to get nailed the second they crossed cover.

Gunther had lit into him.

“You say tag, that means now,” the captain barked, voice still burned into Nikolai’s memory. “You say ghost, that means gone. I don’t ever want to see you confuse the two.”

Afterward, Gunther made him run laps until his legs gave out while shouting out loud, “Tag is now. Ghost is gone. Tag is now. Ghost is gone.”

He said it so many times it sounded almost foreign to him.

Nikolai smirked at the memory before turning his attention to the next screen that blinked into life.

The feed displayed the terrain from a high, bird’s eye view of Poseidon’s spawn point. Then, at the bottom of the frame, the lift platform began to rise and emerge from the bunk was their platoon.

Gunther stood still, arms crossed, eyes locked on the map as Poseidon’s soldiers fanned out onto the terrain.

“Alpha squad—west flank. Tram yard to overpass. Sweep wide, stay low. Your job is to make noise, but don’t get caught. Push the perimeter, bait their patrols, and draw them out if you can.” On the map, four blue markers began arcing out to the far left of the grid, weaving through the broken tram lines.

“Bravo squad,” Gunther said next, his voice calm and collective. “You’re center. Debris alley to breach corridor. You don’t engage until we have a tag. When we do—you hit hard, you hit fast, and you don’t stop until I say so.” Five soldiers pressed forward across the central lane, picking their way through shattered storefronts. “Marcus, you hold back and watch their six.”

Finally, Gunther tapped two fingers against the far left edge of the desk, pulling up the remaining three.

“Charlie squad,” he said, tone dropping. “Hold back behind Bravo. Use long-range scopes, relay comms if you see any movement. You’re my fallback net if this turns sideways.” The backline markers moved slower before circling wide and settling into elevation points along collapsed rooftops.

For a while, nothing happened. But Nikolai tracked them quietly, the moments, how every line and pattern opened and closed opportunities in the blink of an eye.

Then, a red marker pulsed once across the upper left quadrant.

A tag.

Poseidon had made contact.

“Two in the glass atrium. Second floor,” came a voice through the comm—Reyes, from Alpha. “Confirmed hit on one. Might’ve clipped their side. Can’t confirm drop. They scattered west through the stairwell.”

Gunther reacted instantly. “Pull back. Alpha, regroup center and break visual. Let them think that you lost them.”

“Copy,” Reyes responded.

The markers began retreating.

“Except Afton,” Gunther added, eyes still fixed on the map. “Afton, follow them and stay hidden as long as possible.”

“Copy that,” came Afton’s voice.

Nikolai raised his eyebrows. That was dangerous. Leaving someone by themselves.

Just then, another voice chimed in, rougher, more clipped. It was Dax, the point man for Bravo. “Captain—two more ghosted from the northwest of the breach corridor thirty seconds ago. Saw movement through smoke. One had a drone pack.”

Gunther’s gaze shifted, fingers flicking across the holo-map to pan the view. “Noted. Bravo, get to cover and watch your elevation. That drone’s feeding a second view.”

On the display, Bravo’s formation adjusted. The soldiers fanned out beneath collapsed scaffolding and broken rooftops, shadows swallowing their markers as they tightened their perimeter.

“Charlie squad,” Gunther continued, his tone clipped. “Reposition. I want one of you on high ground—north rooftop at 10 o’clock, at least 40 degrees elevation. You spot that drone, you drop it.”

“Copy that,” came a voice from Charlie—Yousaf, probably. One of the quieter ones. His marker took off looping toward the rooftop Gunther marked.

“The other two, stay low and shift west,” Gunther said. “Watch Bravo’s six but do not engage. If they don't see you, you don’t exist.”

Gunther didn’t say it aloud, but the message was clear.

Don't give them a silhouette to shoot at unless you're pulling the trigger first.

“I have their visuals,” came Afton’s voice. “Two moving west side. Fast. I don’t have cover.”

“Engage.”

There was a brief pause on the line. Just the static hum of Afton’s breath before he answered, “Copy.”

Gunther switched channels. “Brave, Charlie—adjust. Afton will pull them west, he’ll buy us time for Bravo to regroup and pivot east. Cut low beneath the ridge. Do not expose yourself. Charlie,” he said next, eyes darting to the rooftops marked along the center grid. “Reposition. One of you climb, get eyes on mid—if they rotate west, I want to know. Yousaf, stay where you are. The rest shift east and watch Bravo’s flank.”

The blue markers reacted immediately, readjusting their position.

Nikolai watched Afton’s marker pulsed erratically across the western edge of the map. Three enemies’ red marker pulsed back, scattered like teeth closing in around him until Afton’s marker flickered one last time before turning black.

Nikolai grimaced.

Black meant you were still conscious, but something had knocked out your mobility. It could range from taking too much damage or a blunt force to key body parts. Whatever it was, he wasn’t walking any time soon.

Nikolai felt nervous. He wasn’t sure why. Maybe it was because he knew what happened when you were surrounded and alone and rendered immobile. Out there, in the field, that meant death—quick, clean, over. But here, at Vanguard, it meant something worse.

Because here, if someone didn’t like you—if you made the wrong joke or pissed off the wrong person and they ended up in the same war game as you, they could make you hurt. Settle the score. After all, everything was fair game in the name of war. And scrimmages were no different.

He hoped Afton didn’t have many enemies.

Gunther tapped the side of the panel and then flicked two fingers forward toward the map. A low mechanical sound filled the war room as one of the overhead side feeds lit up to a live drone feed syncing in.

The camera dipped low, cutting through the smoke curling above the ruined Metro. Then it stabilized. The screen resolved into a rooftop. And in the middle of it was Afton. His body limp, helmet half off, and one of the Athena solders was crouched over him, fist slamming down hard—again and again, while another stood nearby, rifle trained outward like a lookout. A third positioned itself from the rooftop to survey the terrain below, as if waiting for more of them to show up. Offscreen was a fourth. His shadow stretched into view behind a broken satellite.

Nikolai clenched his fists. His eyes stayed glued to the screen. Quickly, he glanced sideways to Gunther, waiting for him to call backup.

But nothing came.

The rest of Alpha squad had already repositioned—too far out to retrieve him. And Nikolai knew it. The timing, the angles, the ambush lying in wait, made any attempt nearly impossible.

Still, he waited.

But the captain said nothing, didn’t even blink at the sight of Afton’s getting beaten to a bloody pulp.

Instead, with his eyes fixed on Afton, he said, “Four confirmed in the northwest grid where Afton’s located. Which means two are unaccounted for—center likely. That puts the rest east. That’s your flag zone. Northeast quadrant. Go.”

Nikolai stared at the screen, then back to Gunther.

He was using Afton as a data point.

He felt anger surged through him. “What about Afton, sir?”

Gunther didn’t even bother to look at him. “What about him?”

“Are you not going to—”

“No.”

Nikolai stared at him in disbelief, chest tight. “But look at him—he’s getting torn apart out there.”

“That’s war,” Gunther said simply, his back to Nikolai. “People get hurt. People die. And one day, you’ll be the one making those calls.”

“But it’s different right now—” Nikolai’s voice cracked. “This isn’t real war, it doesn’t count, he could be seriously hurt or—”

Gunther whipped around so fast Nikolai almost tripped over himself, stumbling a half step back before he caught his footing.

“Right now is different?” Gunther snapped. “If you think this isn’t war, if you believe so little in what we’re doing here, then you’re not cut out for Vanguard. And if you’re not cut out for Vanguard, you can go home—” he gestured sharply toward the door, “—and let the rest of us make those calls so you can sit somewhere safe and feel distraught about it.”

Nikolai froze. The captain took a step closer, his tone low and deliberate.

“Make no mistake, Nikolai. This is war. There are no rules, the pain is real, the losses are real. And in war, we don’t get to choose what feels right. We win, or we bury what’s left of our convictions with the people we couldn’t save.”

Gunther’s gaze didn’t waver. “But when we lose—when everyone’s dead—your feelings, your guilt, your grief? They rot in the dirt with the rest. You want them to mean something?” He leaned in. “Then you win. Each and every one. You win them all.”

Nikolai didn’t respond. Just stared down at the floor, jaw tight. Gunther loomed above him, gaze heavy, making sure that each and everyone of his words had sunk in. Then a chime sliced through the quiet, pulling Gunther’s attention back to the console.

After a second or two, Gunther spoke again.

“The moment each of us stepped foot into the academy and into Vanguard, we knew what the cost would be.” His hands hovered over the interface. “I did. Afton did. You did.” He paused for a second and then with a deep breath said, “Your friend Cassian did, too. I’m sure.”

Nikolai flinched. The name hit like a gut punch as guilt flooded him before he could choke it down.

Because Gunther was right. It was true. They had all known the price and it was never something they could’ve ever haggled for.

Slowly, Nikolai looked back up at Afton’s feed. It reminded him of something he’d tried hard to forget—the footage from his and Cassian’s trial. He never meant to see it, but someone played it in class once. But he saw it. A glimpse of Cassian’s bloodied face flashing across the screen—and the instant he did, Nikolai had bolted to the bathroom, barely making it before he threw up.

He had no problem paying the price then.

Why should he be bothered now?

He did it to get to where he wanted.

He told himself that much—that it was necessary. That Cassian would’ve done the same if the roles were reversed. That there was no other way, because it was the only way. But looking at Afton—all bloodied and hurt, he felt that same sick feeling in his gut when he abandoned Cassian.

Because how sick did he have to be to feel bad now?

After what he did?

Was he such a hypocrite to pretend that he wouldn’t do again to achieve his goal?

So this is the price.

Caring wouldn’t save Afton.

It hadn’t saved Cassian.

It wouldn’t bring back who he used to be before any of this started.

That’s what Gunther wanted to show him.

Why he picked Afton to scout alone.

Why he let Nikolai watch it happen.

He wanted him to know exactly the cost of leadership.

The price of a win.

That your grief didn’t matter if everyone was dead.

And your guilt didn’t matter if you never made it far enough to make it mean something.

So with everything he had, Nikolai swallowed it down. The guilt. The anger. The part of him that wanted absolution. And quietly, he turned his eyes back to the console, because if pain didn’t matter unless you won—then he would win.

And he would learn everything he could.

No matter what.