Under Orders

"Discipline always worked".

That was what Elias told himself as the academy rose out of the fog like a verdict already passed.

Concrete walls cut the horizon into angles too sharp to soften with distance. Floodlights burned even as dawn threatened to arrive, their glare bleaching the parade ground of color and mercy. Lines were painted on the asphalt with an exactness that felt personal, as if the ground itself were keeping score.

Elias stood at the edge of the formation with the other new intakes, duffel bag heavy against his shoulder, spine straight by habit rather than instruction. His breath fogged the air, too loud in his ears. Around him, bodies shifted. Someone swallowed hard. Someone else flexed their fingers, then stopped when a whistle cut through the stillness.

He reminded himself why he was here.

"Debt".

"Tuition".

"A future bought with endurance."

The air felt policed.

A voice barked commands from somewhere ahead. Not shouting, measured, efficient, practiced. The kind of voice that didn’t need volume to be obeyed. The line tightened instinctively, as if pulled by an invisible thread. Elias adjusted his stance without thinking, heels aligning with the painted stripe beneath his boots.

Discipline always worked.

That belief had carried him through classrooms he could not afford, through nights spent calculating numbers that never seemed to add up. It had taught him how to fold himself smaller when necessary, how to wait, how to endure without complaint.

He did not yet understand that some things did not soften under pressure.

They sharpened.

The intake hall smelled like disinfectant and metal—clean, but not kind. The doors sealed behind them with a sound that felt final. Inside, rows of benches faced a raised platform where officers moved with quiet authority, clipboards held like extensions of their hands.

“Remove all personal items. Place them in the bins provided.”

The instruction was delivered without inflection.

Elias complied. Phone. Wallet. Keys. A folded photograph he hesitated over for half a second too long before dropping it into the plastic bin. The sound it made....light, almost nothing, still felt like loss.

Uniforms were distributed next. Identical bundles tossed down the benches with mechanical precision. Fabric landed against Elias’s palms: coarse, heavy, unyielding. It smelled of detergent and something older beneath it—iron, perhaps, or the ghost of sweat that never quite left institutional clothing.

“Change.”

No partitions. No privacy.

Around him, boys stripped quickly, some with bravado, others with stiff, practiced efficiency. Elias moved methodically, folding his civilian clothes the way his mother had taught him when he was younger, edges aligned, movements economical. He did not look up. He did not rush.

The uniform fit well enough to be uncomfortable. Sleeves tight at the shoulders, collar high against his throat. When he buttoned it closed, the fabric felt like a decision being made for him. They were lined up again beneath lights bright enough to erase shadow. Inspection followed. Fingers tugged at collars. Hands corrected shoulders. Heads were tilted, hair measured, posture adjusted with brisk impatience. Names were marked on clipboards without faces being learned.

“Still.”

Time stretched. Elias felt the slow burn creep into his calves, the tightness bloom across his lower back. Sweat gathered at the base of his neck, trapped by the stiff collar. He focused on breathing through his nose, shallow and quiet. Around him, the line wavered almost imperceptibly.

A cadet two rows ahead shifted his weight. The correction was immediate.

“Did I instruct you to move?”

“No, sir.”

“Then why did you?”

Silence. The pause lingered just long enough to humiliate.

“Fix it.”

The cadet snapped back into place, jaw tight. A mark was made on the clipboard.

Elias did not move.

Weakness, he understood, was not punished immediately. It was noted. Logged. Remembered. Minutes passed. Or maybe seconds. In the intake hall, time felt elastic, stretched to test endurance rather than measure it. Elias kept his eyes forward. He did not look for exits. He did not allow himself to think.

Stillness, he realized, was a skill.

It was during this suspension that the air changed. Not physically. Socially. Conversations that had murmured at the edges fell away. A quiet formed that did not belong to the officers on the platform.

Someone had stepped into the space behind the line.

Elias did not turn. He felt it instead, the way one senses a storm before it breaks. Authority without announcement. Gravity without explanation.

Footsteps moved along the line—unhurried, controlled. They stopped somewhere near Elias’s left shoulder.

A voice spoke. Lower than the others. Calm. Almost conversational.

“Cadet.”

Not a name. Just the word.

The boy two places down stiffened. “Yes, sir.”

“Your stance is wrong.”

A pause. Not long enough to be mercy.

“Fix it.”

The correction was immediate. Perfect.

The voice did not raise itself again. It didn’t need to. Elias’s awareness narrowed to the space around him. He could sense the presence now—not looming, not aggressive, simply there. Watching. Evaluating. The kind of attention that did not need to announce itself to be felt. He told himself it was nothing. Just another officer. Just another layer of hierarchy. Still, something in his chest tightened.

The presence moved on. The quiet loosened by degrees, like a held breath being released too carefully to be relief.

Elias exhaled without realizing he’d been holding it.

---

They were dismissed to the dormitories in silence. The corridors were narrow, painted a color that might once have been white. Surveillance cameras tracked movement with impartial vigilance, their lenses following without blinking. Doors were numbered, not named.

Inside the dorm, bunks were arranged in perfect symmetry. No decorations. No softness. Elias chose a lower bunk near the end of the row, sliding his duffel beneath it with care. He sat, stood, then sat again, unsure what to do with himself now that instruction had ceased.

Lights out came early.

Darkness settled, broken only by thin strips of emergency light along the floor. Bodies shifted. Someone coughed. Someone whispered a name that went unanswered. Elias lay on his back, hands folded over his stomach, muscles aching in places he hadn’t realized could ache. He closed his eyes. The day replayed in fragments. The bins. The uniform. The smell of disinfectant. The clipboard scratching ink.

And then, unbidden,....the voice.Not what it had said. How it had said it.The absence of strain. The certainty. The way the room had reorganized itself around it. Elias turned onto his side, then stilled, conscious of the rules even here. Even now. He told himself this was not interest. It was conditioning. The body responding to authority the way it had been trained to do. Still, the thought lingered. Uncomfortable. Persistent.

He tried to focus on the ache in his shoulders, on the rhythm of his breath. Sleep hovered just out of reach, fragile as a held balance. Discipline always worked. He did not yet understand that some pressures did not teach compliance.

They taught hunger.