At the academy graduation, my father scoffed under his breath, “Useless. She’ll quit like she always does.” I stood perfectly still at attention. Then Drill Sergeant Frey halted the ceremony, turned toward me, and raised his hand in a sharp salute. “Major,” he said, voice carrying across the field. “On extended assignment.” My father’s face drained of color.

It wanted ghosts. On the fifth night, Sloan called me into a windowless office. “You understand this path has consequences,” she said.

“Yes, ma’am.” “No public credit. No explaining yourself to people who misunderstand you. No proving yourself to your family.” I thought of Dad’s laugh by the grill. Caleb’s smirk. Mom’s silence.

“I can handle that.” Sloan leaned back. “Everyone says that before the first year.”

“What happens after the first year?” “They learn whether they wanted service or recognition.” The question sat between us like a blade.

I signed anyway. By the end of the first week, no one called me Evelyn. By the end of the first month, I stopped expecting anyone to.

Training did not make me hard all at once. It sanded me down.

At North Yard, the wind cut through our uniforms and filled our teeth with grit. We woke at 4:10 every morning because someone had decided the oddness would irritate us more. We ran until our lungs burned, studied until words blurred, and learned to observe everything.