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Zorro caught his eye for half a beat before turning back into the next stack.

Joker, beside Leite, exhaled like this whole exercise was about to get personal.

Leite didn’t look away from them. “You have big smart asses on your team as well, my friend?”

Joker rubbed a gloved hand down his face and muttered, “Like I’ve said before, I herd big fucking cats for a living.”

Leite’s mouth twitched.

Inside, D-Day came out of the next breach laughing. “Blitz screamed like a kicked chihuahua.”

“Did not.”

“Did too.”

“It was a tactical yell, you illiterate ogre.”

Buck appeared last, brushing plaster from his shoulder. “You keep saying things like that, I’m gonna kiss you square on the mouth. Swear to God.”

“That a threat or a promise?” Blitz asked sweetly.

“You find out, you better be gentle. I’m delicate before noon,” Buck fired back.

“Reset!” Joker snapped from the hallway.

Zorro leaned back against the wall, chest heaving. Migs stepped up beside him, watching the madness like it was a strange and fascinating storm.

“You people talk this much during training?” he asked.

Zorro grinned, dragging a hand down his face. “That’s how we keep from killing each other.”

Behind them, D-Day was already stacking for the next entry, this time with Blitz at his shoulder.

Joker barked, “Low profile. Don’t silhouette the goddamn frame!”

“Copy that,” D-Day called. “Blame Blitz’s fat ass. It overlaps.”

Blitz hissed through his teeth. “Hey, I have low blood sugar.”

Migs coughed a laugh into his fist, then looked up at Captain Leite, who was eyeing the team like he wasn’t sure if they needed deployment or detention.

“These guys…they’re effective,” Migs said quietly. “But insane.”

Leite folded his arms tighter. “If they were Brazilian, we’d have to start another unit just to contain the fallout.”

Zorro caught the tail end of that and tilted his head. “What’s Portuguese for ‘beautiful disaster’?” Everly hadn’t asked for saving. Just silence. So he gave her that. But it didn’t stop him from hoping she was on the other side of that door…thinking about him, too.

Migs deadpanned, “ Americano. ”

The heat inside the hallway ratcheted with every rep. The runs got faster, tight as hell, Ferocious . Sweat pooled in boot arches. Hands slipped. Zorro clocked one of the BOPE trainees trying to get fancy on a slice-the-pie corner and nearly caught a sim round to the chest.

He stepped in post-clear and snapped, “Your ass is not a fucking lighthouse. Stop broadcasting it.” The kid nodded, wide-eyed, and Zorro slapped a hand on his shoulder before moving on. “Keep your corners tight, your ego tighter.”

Buck jogged past, grinning. “Write that on a T-shirt.”

“Shut up,” Zorro said, “before I make yours say ‘I came, I saw, I kissed Blitz.’”

Captain Leite finally stepped in beside Joker, watching the SEALs rotate again with feral energy and no sign of slowing.

“They enjoy this?” he asked, disbelief edging into respect.

“They live for it,” Joker said flatly. “If they die, it’ll probably be with a one-liner.”

He keyed his mic. “Last run. Full blackout. No comms. Make it count.”

The kill house went dark.

Lights off. Night goggles on. Heat doubled. Sound collapsed to breath and fabric, the scuff of boots, the whisper of hands on concrete.

Zorro led the last breach with Buck behind him.

They moved like water through shadow, silent, automatic.

Afterward, when the lights came back up, when the final room was cleared and all targets neutralized, Joker stepped into the hallway, arms crossed.

“Not bad,” he said. “Next time, we do it with knives.”

Zorro leaned against the wall, drenched and gasping, ribs heaving beneath the plates. The hall shimmered with heat. Sweat stung his eyes.

Migs staggered past the end of the corridor, practically dragging his boots behind him. “I’m looking for a juice box and a soft place to die,” he muttered.

Zorro doubled over with laughter, the motion making his vest slide over his abs. “Congratulations, wormfood,” he choked out. “You’ve officially crossed over.”

From somewhere near the corner, Blitz piped up without lifting his head. “Kid, it won’t do you any good. LT will drink your juice box and resurrect you. ”

D-Day groaned, face planted against the wall. “Are you sure you want to be around any of us with sharp objects, LT?”

“What are you talking about?” Joker said. “I could bribe you all with a juice box and still own you.”

Even Captain Leite let out a short, stunned laugh, like it had snuck up on him and escaped before he could stop it.

The sun baked the compound into a forge, turning gravel to heat shimmer and every steel rung into fire.

The obstacle course coiled like a serpent, ropes, walls, tunnels, a ten-meter cargo net swaying like breath in the wind.

A digital scoreboard blinked at the far end, every pair’s time lit up for all to see.

They ran in pairs, one BOPE, one SEAL. Stopwatch precision. Adrenaline-fueled wagers. Full-throated heckling from every corner. They ate it alive.

D-Day and Blitz went first, a hurricane of limbs and momentum. Dirt displaced, blood on their knuckles. Course record set before their sweat cooled.

Buck and Professor followed, calculated and quiet. Freight train and ghost. Missed the top score by half a second. Buck cursed. Professor didn’t blink.

BOPE answered with speed and grit. Their best pair didn’t just run it, they carved through it, precision so clean, it couldn’t be argued. The scoreboard leaned SEAL-heavy. But BOPE? They weren’t there to lose.

They were there to prove .

Zorro watched from the sideline, shirt soaked, cheering hard. Gunfire cracked in the distance. BOPE’s range. Sharp. Familiar. Migs flinched. His chin lifted, shoulders tight. Eyes scanning the course.

Joker’s voice cut through. “Martinez. Sampaio. You’re up.”

Zorro gave Migs a look that said nothing and everything. The kid nodded.

They started strong. Smooth over the wall. Rope climb. Dummy drag. Fireman’s crawl.

The steady gunfire continued—background noise to Zorro. But not to Migs. Mid-run, he flinched again. Stopped. Breath hitched. One knee locked. Zorro stepped in, quiet, close enough to block the sun.

“Migs. Breathe.” The kid was pale. Lost. “Look at me,” Zorro said, voice low. “That gunfire? That’s your team. Not the enemy.” Migs blinked. Zorro waited. “Count it. In…two…three…four. Out.”

A breath came. Shaky. But real. They stood. Together.

“Ready?” Zorro asked.

“Yeah.” The word was rough, but solid.

They ran again. Slower. Steady. Through the crawl, the log jumps, the last wall. No records. But together .

At the finish, Zorro clapped Migs on the back. Sweat pouring. Lungs burning. The yard quieted. Joker, arms crossed, said, “Well done.” Zorro knew he wasn’t talking about the O-Course.

Buck didn’t look up. “Fucking Martinez.” Laughter broke. Migs smiled, slow, and full. They finished , and that was the point.