FRI – 5:00 PM – Academy Lecture Hall – Kaduna Military Cantonment
The diesel generator's hum had become as familiar as a heartbeat. Even in the Lecture Hall—air-conditioned but never quite cool—Elisha found himself adjusting to the low thrum that underpinned every Academy building. Today, that background pulse underscored the final class of his first month: Introduction to Military Law.
"Can you believe it's been a month already?" Ibrahim whispered from the seat beside him, tapping his pen against his notebook. "Feels like yesterday we were all stumbling around trying to figure out which end of a rifle was which."
Elisha nodded, adjusting his collar. The olive-green service dress still felt foreign against his skin, like wearing someone else's identity. "My mother called yesterday. Asked if I was eating enough." He smiled slightly. "Said I sounded different on the phone."
"Different how?"
"More serious, I guess. Less... I don't know, less like myself?"
Ibrahim chuckled quietly. "My father said the same thing. Told me I was already starting to sound like a proper soldier. Not sure if that's good or bad."
Cadet Captain Adebayo stood at the front, reading from a dog-eared manual stamped NDF REG 024: Rules of Engagement. Around the hall, rows of new cadets—now in olive-green service dress—took notes on tablets or scrawled in wire-bound notebooks. The topic: the legal and ethical boundaries that governed use of force, detention, and civilian interaction.
"This stuff makes my head spin," whispered Kwame from behind them. "All these articles and subsections. In Ghana, we had similar rules, but nobody talked about them this much."
"That's the point," Elisha murmured back. "They want us to think about it before we have to use it."
Adebayo's sharp eyes swept the room. "I can hear you gentlemen discussing the finer points of military jurisprudence back there. Perhaps you'd like to share your insights with the class?"
Heat crept up Elisha's neck. "No sir, sorry sir."
"Good. Because what we're discussing today isn't academic theory. It's the difference between honorable service and becoming everything the people fear about us." Adebayo's voice carried the weight of experience. "Every one of you will face a moment where following orders conflicts with following your conscience. What you do in that moment defines not just your career, but your soul."
A uncomfortable silence settled over the room. Elisha noticed several cadets shifting in their seats.
"Elisha Oriade," Adebayo called suddenly, "recite Article 3, Section B."
Elisha rose, palms itching at the seams of his tunic. His mouth felt dry. "Sir—Article 3, Section B: 'Combatants shall distinguish between lawful military targets and protected persons or property. The minimum force necessary must be used to effect an objective.'"
Adebayo nodded curtly. "Good. Now explain how that applies to urban patrols during a riot."
Silence stretched as Elisha weighed his words. He could recite regulation verbatim, but the real test was application. Around him, he sensed his classmates holding their breath.
"Sir," he began, his voice steadier than he felt, "when patrolling a civilian disturbance—like a demonstration—the unit must first identify if any armed elements threaten public safety. If none are present, they must contain the crowd, protect bystanders, and use non-lethal measures—tear gas or water cannon—only when participants endanger life or property. Lethal force is strictly a last resort, and only when evacuation or de-escalation fails."
Several cadets exchanged glances. Behind him, Elisha heard Emeka mutter something under his breath that sounded like "textbook answer."
Adebayo's eyes hardened. "And if political orders override these limits? If your superiors demand a live-fire action against protesters deemed 'subversives' by civilian authorities?"
The question hit Elisha like a lance. His stomach clenched. In his trials, he'd spoken of proportionality—but here, faced with the specter of direct conflict between military law and political directives, he felt the weight of real consequence. He thought of the protests he'd seen on TV back in Lagos, the heavy-handed responses that had made his mother shake her head in disgust.
"This is where it gets real," he thought. "This is where theory meets the street."
"Sir," he said after a heartbeat, "military professionals must refuse any order that contravenes Article 3. Chain of command is critical, but compliance with higher law—the constitution and international conventions—takes precedence. An unlawful order must be challenged through proper channels: immediate objection, documented report to Legal Branch, and, if necessary, appeal to the Commandant's tribunal."
Behind him, someone—sounded like Emeka—let out a barely audible snort. "Easy to say in a classroom," came the whispered comment.
Adebayo heard it too. His gaze swept to the back of the room. "You have something to add, Cadet Okafor?"
Emeka straightened. "No sir. Just... wondering how that works in practice, sir. When you're on the ground and orders are coming fast."
"A fair question." Adebayo's expression softened slightly. "Anyone want to take that?"
Ibrahim raised his hand tentatively. "Sir, isn't that why we drill so much? So the right response becomes automatic?"
"Partially correct. But muscle memory only takes you so far when politics and survival collide." Adebayo moved closer to their section. "The truth is, gentlemen, you'll face pressure from above and below. Politicians who want results regardless of methods. Soldiers under your command who just want to go home alive. And you—you'll be in the middle, trying to do what's right while keeping everyone breathing."
The room felt heavier now. Elisha could almost feel the weight of future decisions pressing down on his shoulders.
"That's why we study this," Adebayo continued. "Not because the law will make your choices easy, but because it gives you something to hold onto when everything else is falling apart."
Adebayo's stern face softened into something like respect as he looked at Elisha. "That answer cost you points with certain tutors. But it was correct. Dismissed."
As they filed out, Ibrahim caught up with Elisha in the hallway. "Man, you really went for it in there."
"Had to. Could feel everyone watching."
"Yeah, especially Emeka. He looked like he wanted to argue with everything you said."
Kwame joined them, shaking his head. "That was intense. You think we'll really face stuff like that?"
"Probably," Elisha said quietly. "Maybe not exactly like that, but... yeah. We will."
"Great," Ibrahim sighed. "And here I thought the hardest part was going to be the physical training."
---
SAT – 6:30 AM – Barracks Courtyard
Before dawn, the cadets gathered for weekend maintenance: cleaning boots, polishing brass, repainting peeling walls of their block. The ritual was meant to instill pride in quarters—but for Elisha, each stroke of the brush reminded him of the legal lecture.
"You're thinking too hard," Ibrahim observed, working beside him with a paint roller. "Can see the wheels turning from here."
"Can't help it. Keep thinking about yesterday's class."
"The law thing? Dude, you nailed it. Even Adebayo looked impressed."
Elisha dipped his brush again, watching the white paint cover a scuff mark on the wall. "It's not about impressing anyone. It's about... I don't know. Making sure we get this right."
"Get what right?"
"All of it. The whole point of being here."
Ibrahim paused in his painting. "You know what your problem is, Elisha? You think too much about the big picture. Sometimes you just gotta focus on the wall in front of you."
"Maybe." Elisha smiled slightly. "But somebody has to think about the big picture, right?"
"Sure. Just don't let it eat you alive."
Abdullahi Shehu passed by, rifle-cleaning kit in hand, pieces of his disassembled weapon wrapped in an oil-stained cloth. "Heavy topic yesterday."
Elisha wiped sweat from his brow. "I keep thinking—if orders come down from the capital to 'restore order by any means,' how many officers will follow blind?"
Abdullahi laughed hollowly, setting down his kit. "Most. That's why the Academy sends idealists here—to teach them distance from politics. Then the real world breaks them in."
"Breaks them how?" Ibrahim asked, looking up from his roller.
"Makes them choose between career and conscience. Guess which one usually wins?"
"Not me," Elisha said quietly—almost to convince himself.
Abdullahi gave him a long look. "Yeah? What happens when following your conscience means your family doesn't eat? When it means the guys under your command get reassigned to someone who doesn't care if they come home?"
"There's always a choice," Elisha insisted.
"Sure there is. But choices have prices. Question is whether you're willing to pay them."
The conversation was interrupted by a clatter from across the courtyard. Emeka Okafor had knocked over a bucket of cleaning solvent, the liquid spreading across the concrete.
"Ah, damn it!" Emeka cursed, scrambling to right the bucket.
When he noticed Elisha watching, he sneered. "Spent too much time on your moral high ground, Oriade? Come help before you stain the barracks."
The words stung, but Elisha set down his brush and stepped forward, shoulder-to-shoulder with him. Ibrahim followed, and soon all three were mopping up the spill with rags.
"You know," Emeka said as they worked, "you gave a nice speech yesterday. Very inspiring."
"It wasn't a speech," Elisha replied evenly. "It was the regulation."
"Right. The regulation." Emeka wrung out his rag with more force than necessary. "You ever wonder why they need to teach us so much about refusing orders? Maybe because following them is usually the smarter play."
"Smarter how?"
"Keeps you alive. Keeps your career intact. Keeps you from becoming a cautionary tale for the next batch of idealistic cadets."
Ibrahim looked between them. "So what, we just follow orders no matter what? That's your solution?"
"My solution," Emeka said, standing up and wiping his hands on his uniform, "is to be realistic about what we're signing up for. This isn't a philosophy class. It's the military. Sometimes good people have to do ugly things."
"And sometimes," Elisha said quietly, "ugly things are just ugly things. No matter who's doing them."
Emeka stared at him for a moment, then shook his head. "You'll see—once you get real orders, you're going to wonder why you ever cared about ghost rules."
Elisha said nothing, but Abdullahi, who'd been listening while cleaning his rifle, spoke up. "Ghost rules?"
"Rules that disappear when they become inconvenient," Emeka explained. "Like speed limits during an emergency, or property rights during a war. Nice in theory, but reality has a way of making them... flexible."
"That's exactly the attitude that gets people killed," Ibrahim shot back. "Innocent people."
"No," Emeka said firmly. "Hesitation gets people killed. Overthinking gets people killed. Following the rules when the other side isn't—that gets people killed."
Abdullahi finished reassembling his rifle with practiced efficiency. "You're both right and both wrong," he said finally. "Rules matter. But so does context. The trick is knowing which one matters more in any given moment."
"And how do you figure that out?" Elisha asked.
Abdullahi shouldered his weapon. "Experience. Making mistakes. Learning from them—if you're lucky enough to survive them."
The group fell silent, each lost in their own thoughts as they finished cleaning up.
---
SUN – 8:00 PM – Recreation Hall
That evening, the new cadets were granted two hours of free time: ping-pong tables set up, a battered pool table in one corner, and a small kiosk selling buns and cocoa. The air was thick with charcoal smoke and the sounds of table tennis balls bouncing rhythmically.
Elisha, Ibrahim Musa, and Kwame Asante clustered around a table near the window, grading their own answers from Saturday's Law quiz. The mosquitoes were out in force, despite the fans spinning lazily overhead.
"Ugh, Omo these things are brutal," Ibrahim complained, swatting at a mosquito on his arm. "How you fit concentrate with all this stuff buzzing around your head?"
"Same way you concentrate during artillery training," Kwame said with a grin. "Mind over matter."
"Easy for you to say. E be like say they like my blood better than your own."
Kwame frowned at his paper, red ink marking several wrong answers. "I thought the answer was discretion—Article 7 grants commanders latitude in 'exceptional circumstances.' They marked me down for over-reliance on process."
"What did you write exactly?" Elisha asked, looking over at Kwame's quiz.
"I said that in emergency situations, commanders should use their best judgment to protect lives, even if it means bending standard procedures."
Ibrahim winced. "Yeah, that's basically what Emeka was arguing yesterday. They don't want us thinking like that."
"But it makes sense, doesn't it? You can't follow a checklist when people are dying."
"Elisha got full marks," Ibrahim pointed out. "Maybe you need to tone down the 'exceptional circumstances' theory."
Elisha felt awkward at the attention. "I just tried to stick close to what the regulation actually says, not what I think it should say."
Kwame shook his head. "The world isn't perfect order. Sometimes you bend the rules so the rules protect the innocent."
A long silence settled. All three knew the theoretical cracks—an officer could justify almost anything as 'exceptional circumstances.'
"That's what scares me," Elisha said finally. "How easy it is to rationalize anything if you try hard enough."
"So what's the alternative?" Kwame asked. "Be so rigid that you can't adapt when things go wrong?"
"There's got to be middle ground," Ibrahim suggested. "Rules with built-in flexibility, maybe?"
"That's what we have now," Elisha pointed out. "It's called 'lawful orders' and 'unlawful orders.' The system assumes we can tell the difference."
"Can we, though?" Kwame asked. "I mean, really? In the heat of the moment, with lives on the line?"
Before anyone could answer, a commotion broke out near the pool table. Two upperclassmen were arguing loudly over a shot, their voices carrying across the room.
"That was obviously a scratch, man!"
"Shey you blind ni? The cue ball no even touched the rail at all!"
"Don't call me blind, you—"
"Hey!" The duty sergeant appeared from nowhere, his voice cutting through the argument. "Settle down, or find somewhere else to play."
The upperclassmen separated, grumbling, but the tension remained. Elisha noticed how quickly the room had gone quiet, everyone suddenly focused on their own activities.
"See that?" he said quietly to his friends. "That's what I'm talking about. Authority works because people respect it. But what happens when that authority asks you to do something wrong?"
"You refuse," Ibrahim said automatically.
"And then what? You get replaced by someone who won't refuse. The wrong thing still happens, but now you're not there to maybe limit the damage."
Kwame nodded slowly. "That's the real dilemma, isn't it? Whether it's better to stay and try to influence things from inside, or to walk away and keep your hands clean."
"My uncle Femi warned me about this," Elisha said. "Told me the institution would try to change me, and I'd have to decide how much change I could accept."
"What did you tell him?"
"That I wouldn't change. That I'd change the institution instead." Elisha laughed softly. "Sounds pretty naive now."
"Maybe," Ibrahim said. "Or maybe that's exactly the attitude they need more of around here."
The conversation was interrupted by the arrival of several more cadets, including Emeka, who pulled up a chair without being invited.
"What are we discussing so seriously?" he asked, glancing at their quiz papers. "Still debating the finer points of military law?"
"Actually, yeah," Kwame said. "Trying to figure out how to balance following orders with doing what's right."
Emeka snorted. "You guys are making this way more complicated than it needs to be. You follow orders. End of discussion."
"Even if they're wrong?" Ibrahim challenged.
"Especially if they're wrong. Because if you refuse, they just find someone else to carry them out. At least if you're the one doing it, you can try to minimize the damage."
Elisha shook his head. "That's how good people end up doing terrible things. By convincing themselves they're limiting the damage."
"And your way—the pure, principled way—that's how good people end up watching terrible things happen from the sidelines."
The debate might have continued, but the duty sergeant reappeared, this time checking his watch. "Fifteen minutes to lights out, gentlemen. Start wrapping up."
As they gathered their papers, Elisha closed his notebook. "Tomorrow, we start drill-instructor rotation. Each group leads platoon drill for a morning. That's when you see who's committed and who's just in uniform for prestige."
Kwame cracked a smile. "Ready to watch uniforms snap to attention at your command, Colonel Oriade?"
Elisha smiled back, tightly. "Let's just hope they listen."
"They'll listen," Emeka said as he stood to leave. "Question is whether you'll know what to tell them."
---
MON – 5:45 AM – Parade Ground
Under a blood-red dawn, Elisha's squad lined up on the Parade Ground. Four rows of ten, rifles shouldered, boots polished to mirror shine. Despite weeks of practice, every new cadet still fumbled the cadence at least once.
The air was cool and still, with just a hint of the heat that would build as the sun climbed higher. Elisha could smell the dust from the parade ground mixing with the scent of metal polish and starch from forty uniforms.
"You nervous?" Ibrahim whispered from his position in the front rank.
"Terrified," Elisha admitted quietly. "What if I mess this up?"
"You won't. And if you do, we'll mess it up together."
Kwame, standing two positions down, added under his breath, "Just remember, we want to look good too. We'll follow your lead."
His task: oversee the first ten-minute "Quick-Formation" drill—organizing the platoon into four ranks under silent command. As a first-year cadet, leading drill was a hazardous honor: done right, it earned respect; done wrong, it marked you incompetent.
Captain Adebayo and two other instructors stood at the reviewing stand, clipboards in hand. Behind them, several senior cadets watched with the kind of casual interest that suggested they remembered their own first attempts at command.
Taking a breath, Elisha lifted his blade. The morning light reflected off the polished metal as he raised it high. The echo carried across the asphalt. "Platoon—attention!"
Forty boots came together with a single crack that echoed off the buildings surrounding the parade ground.
"Left—right—left—right!" He marched down the center, inspecting posture and alignment. His voice carried clearly in the morning air, stronger than he'd expected. "Second rank, dress right—dress!"
The movement was crisp, precise. Weeks of practice showed as the line straightened without hesitation.
"Eyes—front!" Another sharp movement, another perfect response.
By the fourth rank, the platoon snapped into place with mechanical precision. He halted, front and center, his heart hammering against his ribs. The silence stretched for what felt like an eternity.
Then, unexpectedly, rippling applause from the senior cadets observing behind the reviewing stand.
Captain Adebayo made a note on his clipboard, but his expression was unreadable. The other instructors exchanged glances.
"Platoon—dismissed!" Elisha called out, and the formation dissolved into individual cadets, their faces showing a mix of relief and satisfaction.
Ibrahim caught his eye, nodded. Even Emeka managed a reluctant grin. Elisha's chest swelled—not with pride, but relief that capability sometimes spoke louder than pedigree.
"Not bad, Lagos boy," Abdullahi said as they walked off the parade ground.
"You've got the voice for it."
"Thanks. Felt like I was going to pass out the whole time."
"That's normal. Gets easier."
"Does it ever feel natural?" Elisha asked.
"Giving orders, I mean?" Abdullahi considered this. "For some people, yeah. They're born to it. For the rest of us... we just fake it until we make it."
"What if you don't want to make it? What if you don't want to be the kind of person who's comfortable ordering people around?"
"Then you better figure out what kind of officer you do want to be," Abdullahi said.
"Because comfortable or not, that's the job." As they headed toward the mess hall for breakfast, Elisha noticed several of the cadets from other squads nodding at him with what looked like respect.
Word traveled fast in a place like this.
"Feels weird," he said to Ibrahim.
"People looking at me differently."
"Better get used to it. Leadership changes how people see you, whether you want it to or not."
"Yeah," Elisha said quietly.
"That's what I'm afraid of."
-----
--- TUE – 2:00 PM –
Officer Cadre Lounge Later that afternoon, Cadet Captain Adebayo summoned Elisha to the narrow corridor outside the Officer Cadre Lounge.
The hallway was quieter than usual, with most cadets in afternoon classes or training exercises.
"Cadet Oriade," he said quietly, "come in."
Elisha had never been inside the Officer Cadre Lounge before. It was smaller than he'd expected, with worn leather chairs and a table that had seen better days. The walls were lined with photographs of graduating classes going back decades, and the air smelled of coffee and old cigarettes.
Inside, Colonel Baanjidu and Major Dr. Hassan sat at a small table.
A single teacup steamed between them, and there was a stack of files beside the Colonel's elbow.
"Sit down, son," Colonel Baanjidu said, gesturing to an empty chair.
"You performed well this morning."
"Thank you, sir." Elisha sat carefully, trying not to show how nervous he was.
"Quick-Formation isn't graded high academically," Baanjidu continued, "but it reveals leadership presence. You've demonstrated both confidence and clarity."
"More importantly," Major Hassan added, "you demonstrated control. The cadets responded to you because they trusted you wouldn't waste their time or make them look foolish."
Elisha inclined his head. "Thank you, ma'am."
Baanjidu exchanged a glance with Dr. Hassan.
"We have an optional assignment for you: representing your cohort on a delegation to Abuja next month. You'll attend a simulated National Security Council briefing—meet civilian ministers, present security assessments, and draft policy memos."
Elisha's heart hammered. A real chance to bridge military and civilian spheres. "Sir, it would be an honor."
"Before you accept," Dr. Hassan cautioned, "understand what you're agreeing to. This isn't a field trip.
You'll be evaluated on your performance, and that evaluation will become part of your permanent record."
"What kind of evaluation, sir?"
"Your ability to articulate military perspectives to civilian leaders," Colonel Baanjidu explained.
"Your judgment in balancing operational security with transparency. Your skill at building consensus without compromising principles." Major Hassan leaned forward.
"The delegation will also include civilians—think-tank analysts and parliamentary aides. You'll be the sole cadet voice. We want someone who can speak truth without alienating."
"Why me, sir?" Elisha asked. "There are cadets with better grades, better connections—" "Better connections, maybe,"
Baanjidu said with a slight smile. "But not better judgment. Your performance in Captain Adebayo's class, your answers during the interview process, your conduct over the past month—they all point to someone who thinks before he acts."
"Plus," Dr. Hassan added, "you're from Lagos. You understand how civilians think about the military. That perspective will be valuable."
Baanjidu's gaze held Elisha's. "We believe that's you." Then softer: "Remember, Cadet Oriade—oaths bind you, but relationships free you to lead."
"I don't understand, sir."
"You will. The military doesn't exist in isolation. We serve the people, which means we have to understand them, work with them, sometimes even argue with them. That requires skills they don't teach in weapons training."
"Sir, may I ask you something?"
"Of course."
"How do you maintain your principles when everyone around you has different ones? When the civilians want one thing, your superiors want another, and your own conscience is telling you something else entirely?" The two officers exchanged another look.
Dr. Hassan spoke first. "That's the central challenge of military leadership, Cadet Oriade. There's no easy answer."
"But there are wrong answers," Colonel Baanjidu added.
"Blind obedience is wrong. Pure idealism is wrong. The right answer is somewhere in between—principled pragmatism, you might call it."
"How do you find that balance?"
"Practice. Mistakes. Good mentors." Baanjidu smiled. "And remember that your principles aren't just about what you believe—they're about how you act when believing costs you something."
Elisha sat quietly for a moment, processing this. "Sir, I accept the assignment."
"Good. Major Hassan will brief you on the details next week. For now, just focus on your regular coursework. And Cadet?"
"Yes, sir?"
"Don't overthink this. You're not representing the entire military. You're representing yourself and your fellow cadets. Be honest, be thoughtful, and trust your training."
As Elisha stood to leave, Dr. Hassan called after him.
"One more thing. The simulation will include some... challenging scenarios. Situations where there may not be a clear right answer. Remember that sometimes the best choice is the one you can live with afterward."
----
--- WED – 9:00 PM –
Barracks Bunk That night, Elisha lay on his bunk, the humid air pressing through the mosquito net like a damp blanket.
The barracks were quieter than usual—most of his bunkmates had fallen asleep quickly after a particularly grueling day of weapons training. But sleep eluded him. He turned the delegation offer over in his mind, trying to imagine himself in a room full of politicians and policy experts.
A month from now, he'd brief actual ministers—civil servants who might be as cynical as the ones he'd watched on TV back in Mushin.
"Can't sleep?" Ibrahim's voice came softly from the next bunk.
"No. Too much to think about."
"The Abuja thing?" Word traveled fast in the barracks.
"Yeah. Among other things."
Ibrahim shifted in his bunk, the springs creaking. "You nervous about it?"
"Terrified. What if I say the wrong thing? What if I make us all look bad?"
"You won't. You're probably the only one here who could handle something like that."
"I don't know about that."
"I do. You've got this way of talking to people—like you're actually listening to them, not just waiting for your turn to speak."
Elisha smiled in the darkness. "My mother always said that was important. 'God gave you two ears and one mouth for a reason.'"
"Smart woman. Mine just told me to keep my mouth shut and do what I was told."
"Different approaches, I guess."
They lay in comfortable silence for a while, listening to the sounds of the barracks settling for the night—snores, the creak of bunks, the distant hum of generators.
"Elisha?"
"Yeah?" "Do you ever wonder if we're making a mistake? Being here, I mean?"
Elisha thought of his mother's words: "It's not just where you serve, but how you serve."
He thought of Uncle Femi's warning: "Don't let the institution make you someone you're not." And he thought of Captain Okafor's closing counsel: "Honor is chosen every day."
"Sometimes," he admitted.
"But then I think about the alternative. What happens if good people don't try to serve? If we just leave it to the people who don't care about doing it right?"
"Yeah, but what if the system is too strong? What if it changes us instead of us changing it?"
"Then we fight harder to stay ourselves."
"And if that doesn't work?"
Elisha was quiet for a long moment. "Then at least we tried. At least we didn't just walk away."
His uniform hung neatly on the rack beside him—still crisp, still new. One fold for duty, one fold for self-discipline.
Underneath, the boy from Mushin who'd chased knowledge in candlelight, who'd run on cracked pavement, who'd learned that patriotism was expensive.
"Ibrahim?"
"Yeah?"
"Thanks for being here. For... I don't know. For keeping me grounded."
"Haha, you dang faggot. We're all just trying to figure this out as we go."
A distant generator sputtered to life, adding its voice to the nighttime chorus.
In the darkness, Elisha closed his eyes and whispered his vow: "I will choose honor, every day—even when the orders change."
Tomorrow would bring new classes, new drills, and the first taste of policy engagement.
But for now, he slept knowing that the die had truly been cast—and that the real journey lay not just in uniform, but in the choices he would make beyond it. In the bunk beside him, Ibrahim's breathing deepened into sleep.
Around the barracks, forty young men dreamed their different dreams of service and glory, each carrying their own hopes and fears into whatever morning would bring. Outside, the generators hummed their endless song, keeping the lights burning in a place where young civilians slowly transformed into something else entirely—the guardians of a nation's future, for better or worse.