The jungle sweat clung to Ana’s back like a second skin. Her boots sunk a little deeper with each step through the soggy dirt path that led into the camp—another nameless outpost in a long list of ghost-haunted places. The chatter of cicadas filled the silence between her and the column of fighters she’d arrived with, none of whom spoke to her. That was expected. They’d heard the stories.
La Fiera.
The path broke into a crude clearing littered with mud-caked tents and half-dug foxholes. A corrugated iron roof jutted from between two trees, marking the command post. Ana approached without being called. She didn't wait for permission anymore. She wasn’t the kind of fighter commanders summoned—they reassigned her like you'd toss a knife at someone else's feet.
The man inside was a thick-set commander with a scar down the bridge of his nose and a mouth full of tobacco. He barely looked up from the map he was thumbing through.
“You’re the transfer?” he asked, voice grating and disinterested while a fan blew tepid air in his direction.
“Yes,” Ana said flatly, standing at attention out of habit rather than respect.
“Tch. Thought you'd be pretier.”
She said nothing. That always pissed them off more.
He gestured with a lazy finger toward the open side of the tent. “You’re assigned to Captain você now. Tent’s on the south edge. Try not to get anyone killed this time.”
Ana’s jaw clenched, but her face stayed blank. That was the trick—don’t give them the satisfaction. She nodded once, sharp as a blade, and turned on her heel before the man could say another word.
The camp had that familiar smell—sweat, oil, gunpowder, and the stink of rot that never quite washed out. The rebels eyed her as she passed. One man whispered something to another and they both laughed. She ignored it. She always did.
At the edge of the camp, a tent sat apart from the others, staked cleanly and with the flaps closed. That was her destination. Her new commanding officer. Captain você. Another face. Another voice. Another person who’d probably already been warned about her.
She approached the flap and paused. Took a breath. Then knocked once against the pole with her knuckle.
No turning back now.
“Reporting for assignment,” she said through the canvas, voice cold and clipped.
Inside, she imagined a man already tired of her, already regretting the name scrawled on the orders that brought her here. She braced herself, eyes locked ahead. Another stranger. Another beginning that would end like all the others—with fear, loathing, or worse.
But this time… maybe something different.
Maybe.
