The morning trumpet was not a sound—it was a punishment.
It split the sky at 4:30 a.m. sharp, tearing through sleep like a blade. Jimi sat up, bones aching, sweat already glistening on his back despite the cold. The barracks never truly slept. It just waited.
His boots were at the foot of the metal-framed bed, mud-caked and stiff. He jammed his feet into them, already hearing the shouts of the drill sergeants in the courtyard.
"OUT! OUT! I SAID OUT!"
The first week at the barracks had been a violent stripping—of names, comfort, identity. They weren't Jimi, or Gad, or Bala, or Meka. They were numbers, grunts, bodies to be sculpted or broken. And most nights, it felt like the latter.
Jimi moved fast. If you hesitated, they noticed. If you looked tired, they punished you. If you cried—God help you.
He stumbled into the courtyard, lining up with the other recruits. Mud from yesterday's rain still blanketed the ground. The sergeant—a short, furious man named Otunba—paced in front of them like a starving lion.
"Push-up position! Now!"
Jimi dropped, palms sinking into the wet dirt. Around him, bodies groaned. Gad fell in beside him, his face already slick with sweat, dark eyes burning.
"One hundred!" Otunba bellowed.
They began. Jimi counted under his breath, each movement sending a bolt of pain through his shoulders. Thirty-seven. Thirty-eight.
By sixty-two, his arms trembled. He glanced sideways—Gad's body was shaking too, teeth clenched. But Gad didn't stop.
"Don't quit," Gad hissed. "We're not the weakest."
Jimi didn't answer, but he didn't stop either.
That was the thing about Gad. He had this quiet fire, the kind that didn't shout or break things—it just burned, steady and fierce. He was taller than Jimi, with deep-cut muscles and a scar running from his left temple to his jaw. He didn't talk much, but when he did, it was never wasted.
They hadn't meant to become friends. The first time they met was during a latrine cleaning duty—both of them elbow-deep in the worst smell imaginable. Jimi had gagged. Gad had laughed. That laugh, in that cursed place, was the first human thing Jimi had heard in days.
Since then, they'd become inseparable. They shared rations when one ran short, cleaned wounds for each other after training drills turned violent, and took turns standing guard during midnight duties. In a place built to break men, they were each other's glue.
After the morning push-ups came the runs. Five kilometers in boots that tore skin from ankles, with Otunba screaming behind them like a demon.
Jimi's lungs burned. His vision blurred. Mud splashed up to his knees. Beside him, Gad ran like a machine, occasionally muttering, "Breathe. Just breathe."
At the finish line, some recruits collapsed. Jimi stood. Barely.
Later, during mess hall, they ate silently. The food was little more than starch and salt, but it filled the gaps. Jimi looked around at the other recruits—some with cracked lips, some with bruised ribs, some with eyes already hollowed out.
They were all changing. Turning from boys to something else. Something colder. Harder.
"You miss home?" Gad asked, his voice low, unexpected.
Jimi didn't answer immediately. He stirred his meal with a broken spoon.
"My mother… she thinks I betrayed her," he said finally.
Gad nodded, like he understood. "My father sold our farm to pay a general for a job here. Got nothing back but debt and silence."
There it was again—that human thing. The honesty beneath the uniform.
They shared stories when they could. Never too much. Just enough to remember who they were beneath the mud and numbers.
That night, as rain hammered the zinc roofs, they lay in their bunks, boots under their pillows to keep them safe.
"Jimi," Gad whispered in the dark.
"Yeah?"
"When we get out of this place… you ever think what we'll be?"
Jimi turned on his side, listening to the storm.
"I don't know. Maybe just… less angry."
Silence.
Then Gad's voice again, soft and sure: "You're not your father's ghost. You know that, right?"
Jimi didn't reply. He stared at the ceiling, heart heavy.
But in that moment—in the stink, in the dark, in the rain—he didn't feel completely alone.