I stood in formation with the rest of my platoon, spine straight, eyes forward, breathing shallow. Around me, thirty other recruits waited for inspection with the kind of nervous energy that makes your stomach clench.We’d been through this drill a hundred times in the three months since basic training started. Sergeant Crawford walked the line like a predator looking for weakness, finding it in untied laces or crooked name tags or anything else that gave him an excuse to make someone’s morning hell.
I’d learned early to be invisible. Keep your head down, follow orders, never give them a reason to notice you. It was a survival skill I’d perfected long before joining the Marines.
But that morning, invisible wasn’t enough.
Crawford stopped in front of me, his eyes scanning my uniform with the intensity of someone looking for any excuse. I felt his gaze move from my boots to my cap, taking inventory of every detail.
Ezoic
Then he saw it. One button on my uniform shirt, barely loose, catching the morning light wrong.
“Private Torres.” His voice cut through the silence like a blade. “You think this is acceptable?”
“No, sir.”
“Then why is it on my parade ground?”
