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.

The facility was hidden behind miles of pine forest and fencing with no signs. It smelled of bleach, rubber mats, old concrete, and gun oil. There were no flags out front. No motto carved in stone. Just a gray building tucked into the trees like it did not want to be seen.

The first test was simple.

A table. Sixteen objects. Thirty seconds to study them. Five minutes later, list them in order.

I listed the objects, their exact positions, the scratch on the brass key, the red thread caught in the pouch zipper, and the wall clock that skipped twice between 8:11 and 8:12.

The man with the clipboard stopped chewing gum.

The next test was a hallway with doors opening at random. People shouted contradictory instructions. A tray crashed behind me. A light burst overhead. I finished the route with three seconds left and blood in my mouth from biting my cheek.