Unfortunately, attention found her anyway.
It didn’t take long. In a place like Blackridge, details were currency. People noticed boots, posture, haircuts, accents, and anything that didn’t quite fit the pattern. And what didn’t fit, more often than not, became a target. For Mara, that detail was stitched onto her left sleeve: a weathered patch bearing the unmistakable insignia of the Iron Wolves, a unit so selective and so rarely spoken about that even mentioning its name tended to lower voices in a room. It wasn’t the kind of emblem someone wore casually, and certainly not the kind that belonged on the arm of someone listed, according to official records, as a supply coordinator.
The first comments came in the mess hall, as they often do, where people feel emboldened by numbers and the illusion of anonymity. Three younger soldiers—fresh out of advanced training, still carrying that restless mix of confidence and insecurity—noticed it immediately. One of them nudged the other, then laughed a little too loudly.
“Hey,” he said, pointing with his fork like he’d just spotted something amusing, “you know what that is, right? Or is that just for decoration?”
Mara didn’t look up right away. She took another bite of her food, chewing slowly, as though the question had been directed at someone else entirely. When she finally lifted her gaze, it wasn’t defensive or annoyed. It was calm. Almost detached.
“I know what it is,” she said.
That only made it worse.
“Oh, she knows,” another one chimed in, grinning. “That’s rich. You buy that at a surplus store, or did someone give it to you for Halloween?”
