Seth

The tie Kyle forced me to wear seems to be tightening as the minutes pass. How does he wear this every day? I wonder again, trying to loosen it.

"The Captain has arrived," Raffi says, poking his head into my office. Despite claiming that our former superior had no power over him, my friend trimmed his beard, secured his hair in a tight bun, and, like me, was also forced into a business suit.

Honestly, I don’t know what Thorne is thinking.

“Great, the sooner we get this over with, the sooner I can get rid of this crap,” I grumble as I stand up, following my friend to the elevators where we join Kyle, who was already waiting.

“Three enter,” the blonde murmurs, watching the floor numbers change.

“Three exit,” Raffi and I respond in unison.

What we feel for the man who steps through the elevator doors is deep respect, not fear, but we understand the pressure of being under his scrutiny. We come to attention the moment we see the dark blue uniform, indicating an official visit. It’s an honor for a security company that’s been around for such a short time.

He returns the salute, his medals and decorations on the left side of his chest reflecting the white light of the corridor, with his white cap under his left arm. The Captain is a man in his 60s, his severe expression marked by the lines on his face, and the small lines around his blue eyes suggesting that when he’s not handling all the problems that come with his role as the leader of one of the MARSOC battalions, he smiles a lot.

“Sergeants,” he says in a serious voice. Williams is accompanied by four corporals, who are scanning the surroundings for threats. “It’s a pleasure to see you again.”

“The pleasure is ours,” Kyle asserts, pointing to the corridor. “If you could follow us, we have the reports you requested. They’re ready in the conference room.”

Kyle takes the lead, Raffi positions himself next to the Captain, who glances at my friend's bun and purses his lips, though I can’t tell if it's in disapproval or an attempt to suppress a smile. I follow behind, even behind the corporals; it wasn’t planned, but we always operate as a unit with one shared brain. This is one of the skills that earned us our reputation.

I hear one of the men in front of me, Corporal Smith, whisper.

“It’s Hellhound.”

His colleague falters, and I keep my expression neutral, knowing this would happen. After all, our unit is famous. My attention shifts to Raffi, who might seem like a fun-loving guy, but he holds the record for the best sniper to this day, earning him the nickname Reaper. Kyle is a natural leader, with his quick decision-making and calm demeanor in tense situations making him an expert in raids and the best at handling potential explosives.

Hellhound was my nickname, given by my direct superior, Sergeant Washington, because, like a dog with a bone, I wouldn’t let go of a mission until it was completed. I was relentless, as if I had come straight from hell. Thus, my main role was intelligence gathering. I push away the memories of all the interrogations as I enter the conference room, closing the door behind me and taking my place to Kyle’s left.

We spend the next two hours at the oval table, presenting our company, the course plans, and some of our recent work, while keeping our clients’ confidentiality by using code names.

“As expected, it’s a very well-organized operation,” Captain Williams declares with a proud smile. “Congratulations, Sergeants.”

“Thank you, sir,” we respond in unison.

“Would you like to see the training facilities?” Kyle asks.

“We have a practical class happening right now,” I add. “It’s one of my classes, but today’s instructor is one of our senior members.”

“One of the most sought-after as well,” Raffi adds.

“Of course,” he agrees, standing up. As we head out into the corridor, we return to formation.

***

We pass through all the empty rooms, including the shooting range, infiltration, and rescue practice areas, until we reach the martial arts class. Everyone is training in pairs, following the lesson plan I prepared and handed to Taylor this morning.

“Thorne, what are they doing here?” the Captain asks, pointing to the back of the room where Hill, Walker, and Carter are training.

“They’re rookies, started with us a little over a month ago, having come from the army. Seth noticed they have a lot of pent-up anger, which we know is a symptom of post-traumatic stress, and I’m trying to get them to work with our psychological support team to address their combat period. Here at Hades’ Men Corp, all employees have 24/7 access to therapy, whether for immediate consultation or long-term treatment,” Ky proudly explains.

“Can we discuss this in your office?” our former superior asks, his posture noticeably changing. Tension seems to radiate from his pores, and his muscles appear rigid under the uniform.

“Of course, sir,” my friend replies, already turning towards the elevators that will take us to the upper floor where our offices are located.

I turn my gaze back to the class, my eyes fixating on the three men who caught the Captain’s attention, and I know whatever he’s about to tell us won’t be good. I shake my head and join the others, recalling the conversation I had with Kyle a few weeks ago about the potential anger issues of the three.

***