Morning hit different when you ain't slept right. Suns still low, sky all misty, but we posted up like statues—row after row, still as death. Air stingy against my skin. My arms sore, my face thumping where yesterday’s hits left they mark—bruises dark like storm clouds. But I keep my stance tight.

  We stand in the Yard—a patch of dirt between the barracks and the wire fence. Only thing taller than Klaus is the watchtower, its shadow cutting through the mist.

  He step up, boots crunchin’ the dirt like he own the ground. He got that look, like a wolf sniffin’ out weak prey. His eyes sweep over us, then stop dead on me.

  A low grunt rumble out his throat. "Show me your knuckles."

  I lift ‘em. Clean. No bruises, no cuts. No proof I swung on nobody.

  Klaus pop the cigar out his mouth, drop it, crush it under his boot like it ain’t worth nothin’. He lift his chin. "All of you! Hands out!"

  Whole squad move, fists up. I keep mine down, but my gut coil up tight. I know what he doin’. He lookin’ for last night’s fighters.

  Then he stop. Stare.

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  I follow his eyes. One of Korin’s boys. Punk got shaky hands, knuckles all busted up. Sweat runnin’ down his face like he already know what’s comin’.

  Klaus don’t say nothin’. Just flick his fingers at me. "Follow."

  I hesitate, then step out the line. He lead me to a wooden pole nearby. Reach down. Pick up a bat. Old, but thick. Heavy. He flip it once, feel the weight, then hand it over. I take it, confused.

  Then he turn back, lock eyes on the punk. His voice drop low. "The bat will break… begin."

  Punk damn near choke. "I—I didn't do it." His voice weak. "I didn't mean it—please, man, I’m sorry."

  Tears now.

  I stare at him. The bat heavy in my grip. My heart slammin’ in my chest.

  Hit him.

  That’s what Klaus want. That’s what soldiers do, right? That’s how you prove you strong?

  …Nah.

  I let the bat go. Last time I swung one, it was for Grandma Rose—back when she needed firewood, not bodies. "I ain’t doin’ it." My voice solid. "I ain’t hurtin’ my own."

  No reponse.

  Then Klaus move.

  Fast.

  Before the punk can even flinch—before I can breathe—CRACK.

  Bat split his forehead. Blood spill down his face.

  Klaus don’t stop. He swing again. Shoulder. Ribs. Back. The bat shatter against him, bustin’ into splinters. Punk drop like dead weight, wheezin’, blood soakin’ the dirt.

  Klaus inhale slow through his nose. A beast. "The other one."

  Second punk bolt.

  That damn idiot.

  Pop.

  Gunshot split the air. The punk’s scream came half a second later, like his body needed time to feel the pain. Blood pour from his leg. Same dirt where we did push-ups at dawn. Klaus always said this ground was cravin’ somethin’.

  He glance back at us. "Step up."

  Somebody do.

  Korin.

  He move smooth, calm. Eyes cold like river ice. When he nod, his throat work once, like he swallow a scream. "I did it."

  Klaus stare him down. Then grunt.

  He step away, come back.

  With another bat.

  Korin shift, real slight, just enough to look at me. Our eyes meet.

  Stomach twist.

  His knuckles ain’t bruised.

  He ain’t fight.

  But Klaus don’t care.

  The bat swings.