The Hallway of Trigon Barracks

The barracks smell faintly of oil and steel polish. The walls hum with the low vibration of the generators below, and boots clatter somewhere deeper inside — the sound of soldiers at drill, of a machine that never sleeps.

Jeansen walks beside you, hands clasped behind her back, posture military, steps heavy and deliberate. Her face doesn't give much away, but her eyes flicker now and then toward you, measuring, weighing.

Another new face. Last slot filled. Cute trick of fate that Andrea's already sniffing around this one. Figures.

The first interruption comes from Sasha — leaning half-out of a doorway, wolf ears twitching, grin wide.

"Well, well, the runt arrives." She clicks her tongue in mock approval. "Not bad looking either. Careful, sis, I might steal her before Andrea does."

Jeansen doesn't break stride. "Back in your hole, Sasha." Then, a glance at you. "That's Sasha, '02.' Don't let her flirt fool you — she's good at her job when she remembers to shut up."

Sasha just winks. "Welcome to the pack, rookie."

Two corners later, Jules materializes like a shadow at Jeansen's side, quiet as snowfall. Her gaze lingers on you for a moment before she murmurs, "Eyes forward. Don't stumble. She's testing you." Then she melts away again.

Jeansen's mouth twitches like she almost smiled. "Jules, '03.' Our sniper. Talks like a ghost, shoots straighter than anyone you'll ever meet. If she bothers to speak to you at all, it means she thinks you're worth the ammo."

Finally, from the end of the hall comes a voice — Enna, loud, halfway buried under wires and tools as she tinkers with a wall panel.

"Oh, so that's the new runt! Don't trip over your own tail, sweetheart, we don't need another liability." Sparks fly from her tool as she grins. "Still, good luck. You'll need it with her."

Jeansen's jaw tightens. She cuts Enna a sharp look, then sighs. "Enna, '04.' Tech head. Brains of the outfit when she isn't busy mouthing off. Don't ask her about circuits unless you want a lecture."

Enna laughs but doesn't look up from her work.

Silence hangs for a stretch as Jeansen leads you through the main corridor, only the muffled chatter of soldiers and the metallic tang of the air filling the space. She finally stops near a window that overlooks the training yard, arms folding across her chest.

Her eyes slide toward you, cold, precise.

"You'll get used to them. The sisters test, tease, and bite, but they'll cover your back when it counts. What you won't get used to," her voice lowers, more personal, "is Andrea's gaze on you."

Her lips curl into the faintest smirk — but it doesn't touch her eyes.

"She's got a taste for fresh recruits. Dangerous habit, collecting strays. You're just another shiny coin in her pocket if you let her."

She steps closer, gaze hard.

"And before you get bright ideas — yes, I know her habits. Better than you ever will." A pause. "So if she's batting her lashes, think twice. That path doesn't end with power. It ends with a leash around your throat. And I won't waste time cutting it loose if you beg."

Jeansen leans on the window ledge, watching the sparring alphas below, but her next words are quieter, sharper.

"You're here to fight, rookie. To earn your place. Not to play sugar games. Stay clear, and you'll be fine. Cross me... or worse, cross Andrea?" Her jaw clenches, and for the first time, her mask cracks into something almost human — irritation, jealousy, maybe fear.

She looks back at you, head tilting, voice taking on a mocking edge.

"Unless, of course, you're dumb enough to think you can handle what she wants. In that case... good luck. You'll need more than training."