Chapter 10

Training Camp - Day 6

The night is long, bitter, and restless. Even with the fire burning low, the cold creeps into my bones. After finishing my watch, I manage to sleep in short, shallow bursts, jolting awake whenever the wind would shift or a distant noise rustled in the trees. Around me, the others are barely better off. Hawkins mutters something in her sleep. Kelso groans every time he turns over, no doubt feeling the stiffness set into his body. Jefferies is the only one who seems truly unbothered, his slow, steady breaths a sharp contrast to the quiet suffering of the rest of us.

By the time dawn breaks, I'm fucking baltic.

The fire is no more than embers, a weak glow in the grey morning light. Private Cairns shivers beside me, pulling her jacket tighter around herself. Hawkins stretches with a groan, wincing as she straightens her back.

"Well, that was shit," Kelso mutters, his voice scratchy from sleep. "Anyone else feel like they just aged a decade?"

"You're supposed to be the youthful one here." Hawkins grumbles.

Footsteps crunch over the frost-covered ground. I don't have to look up to know who it is.

"On your feet," Styles' voice cuts through the morning stillness like a blade. "Congratulations, you survived the night. Barely."

I push myself up with aching limbs, brushing dirt from my sleeves. The recruits around me do the same, some slower than others. Styles gives us a once-over, unimpressed. His own uniform is crisp, his hair perfectly in place. I swear the bastard doesn't even look cold.

"You've got until this afternoon to eat, rest, and recover. Make the most of it, because today, we're moving onto something new." He pauses, letting that sink in before continuing, "We focus on mental strategy, manipulation and negotiation. If you think last night was uncomfortable, you're in for a treat. Dismissed."

____

The mess hall is a welcome sight after a night spent in the dirt. The warmth inside seeps into my frozen skin, and the smell of food—bland as it is—has never been more appealing.

I collapse onto a bench beside Hawkins, cradling a steaming cup of something that barely qualifies as coffee. Across from us, Kelso is inhaling his food like he's been starved for a week.

"You might want to slow down before you choke," Jefferies warns, shaking his head.

"If I die, at least I won't have to do whatever fresh hell Styles has planned for us tonight," Kelso replies, shovelling another bite into his mouth.

Hawkins snorts. "You're assuming he wouldn't find a way to make your ghost run laps."

I can't help but laugh at her comment. "Yeah. Styles doesn't seem to be the type to accept death as an excuse."

Hawkins nudges my arm with a smirk. "I think he's got a soft spot for you; ya know?"

I roll my eyes at her ludacrissy. " Yeah, real soft" I respond sarcastically.

Jefferies shakes his head. "If that's his version of being soft, I'd hate to see what happens when he's actually trying to break someone."

No one has to say it, but we all know we'll probably find out soon enough.

____

At 13:45, Styles rattles on the dorm door, jolting me out of the much-needed sleep I'd managed to fall into.

"Get up, we go again in 15 minutes!" he shouts.

I'm feeling quite anxious about what lies ahead. If yesterday had been about stopping the body from falling apart, today is about something worse—what happens when someone tries to break you from the inside.

When the clock struck 2, Styles led us to a small building near the centre of camp. Immediately upon stepping inside it appeared as a kind of waiting room with chairs lined up against the wall. Directly across from this was a solitary door.

Styles stands at the front of the room, arms crossed, watching us file in like he already knows which ones of us are going to crack.

"Negotiation." He finally speaks, his voice sharp and unwavering. "Mental strategy. The difference between getting what you want and being completely fucked."

Kelso shifts in his seat. "Like, talking our way out of a fight?"

Styles' smirk is sharp. "Like making someone think they want what you want. Like making them doubt themselves, hesitate, second-guess every choice until they don't know which way is up." He pauses. "And in some cases, getting them to hand over everything they have before they even realise you took it."

Styles steps forward, slow and deliberate. "I don't give a shit how tough you think you are. If you can't control your emotions, if you let someone else dictate the conversation, you lose. If you let your facial expression or body language give things away, you lose. And if you lose, you're dead."

Silence.

"You need to learn how to push back. How to manipulate, mislead, and—if necessary—tear someone apart with nothing but words." His eyes gleam. "And the best way to teach you that... is to do it to you."

A ripple of unease moves through the recruits.

"You'll each get five minutes in that room with me," Styles gestures to the adjoining space, windowless, closed off. "Your job? Hold your ground."

"What's your job?" Hawkins asks.

"My job is to break you. And I fucking love my job."

______

Private Cairns is up first. As she heads inside, we all wait, not a word exchanged between us.

Five minutes later, she walks out, shoulders tense but otherwise fine. Then another. And another. Some recruits come out looking frustrated, others stone-faced. But then—

Private Fairley stumbles out, face flushed, eyes wet, barely holding back tears. She walks past us without a word.

Kelso lets out a low whistle. "That bad?"

Fairley doesn't answer.

Styles appears at the doorway, completely unaffected. "Holton, your turn."

I push to my feet, ignoring the way my pulse jumps slightly. This is just another test. Another chance to prove myself.

Inside, the room is dim, a single chair positioned across from where Styles leans back casually. He looks at home in the interrogation setting—arms draped over the chair, legs spread, completely at ease, like he already knows how this is going to go.

"Take a seat."

I sit, doing my best to keep my expression neutral.

"So," he drawls, tilting his head. "What do you want from me?"

"Information."

"Do you, now?" His lips twitch, amused. "Alright. Make me talk."

I lean forward, keeping my tone measured. "You have intel on an upcoming enemy strike. The safety of my unit depends on it. I need to know when and where."

Styles hums, feigning consideration. "And why the fuck should I tell you?"

I expected that. "Because if you don't, the consequences will be worse for you."

He smirks. "For me?"

"Yes. If my unit knows you had the intel and refused to cooperate, they'll assume you're more useful dead than alive."

Styles laughs, low and knowing. "You think I'm scared of threats? I've been held at gunpoint by people a lot scarier than you, Private. Try again."

I grit my teeth, adjusting my approach. "Maybe fear isn't the right motivator. Maybe you want something in return."

He leans in now, interest sparking in his eyes. "Now we're getting somewhere. What are you offering?"

What do I want? What would be valuable to ask for? I hesitate.

That hesitation is a mistake. His smirk returns, sharp and smug.

"See, that's your problem, Holton. You don't commit. You hesitate. You second-guess yourself. And in a real negotiation, that's the moment you lose."

I set my jaw, narrowing my eyes. "I haven't lost yet." I hit back without even thinking.

He raises his eyebrows, and I know for just a second, I caught him off guard.

"Haven't you?" He tilts his head, gaze flickering over me in a way that makes my pulse jump for a different reason. "I can see it, you know. The way you're holding yourself, the way your breath just caught—"

I force my expression blank. "You're imagining things."

He grins. "Am I?"

I hold his stare, refusing to let him see that he's rattling me. He leans in slightly, voice lowering just for me.

"The thing is, Holton, you can't win this game if you can't even control your own reactions."

I feel heat rise to my cheeks. He's baiting me.

"I see it, you know." He continues.

I frown. "See what?"

His fingers drum idly against the table. "The way you react when I touch you."

Heat rushes to my face and this time, I can't fight it off.

Styles grins, like he's enjoying every second of this. "You think I don't notice? You go stiff, like you're trying not to give yourself away. But then—" his voice dips lower, eyes locked on mine, "—sometimes, you hesitate. Just for a second."

I swallow, refusing to look away. "You're imagining things." I repeat myself.

He quirks a brow. "Could be. Or maybe you just don't like the fact that I notice."

I grit my teeth, keeping my expression blank. He lets the silence stretch between us, watching, waiting for me to crack. If I crack now, if I bite – he'll hold this over me for the rest of this training camp. I haven't got many things right since I've been here, but I'll make damn fucking sure this doesn't join that list.

So, I don't crack. Instead, I retaliate. I know I'm playing with fire here, but this is what he said he wanted. You need to learn how to push back. How to manipulate, mislead. His words replay over and over in my mind.

"Funny," I say, voice even. "For someone who claims to be untouchable, you seem awfully interested in how I react to you."

His smirk falters—just for a fraction of a second. Gotcha.

I keep my expression smooth. "Maybe you should ask yourself why that is." For the first time since I walked in, I actually feel like I'm the one in control. 

Then, slowly, he exhales a short laugh, shaking his head. "Not bad, Holton."

I keep my face carefully blank, but inside—I feel something like satisfaction.

Styles pushes back from the table, standing. "That's time."

I rise, meeting his gaze head-on. "Dismissed."

I turn and walk out, keeping my steps steady, not too fast. The second the door shuts behind me, I release the breath I didn't realise I was holding. The others look up as I step back outside. I say nothing. Just sit down and wait for the next name to be called. Just another lesson. Just another test. But I can't help feeling like I won this round.