Miguel stared at the piece of bread for two seconds, then looked up at the person in front of him."…Who are you?" he asked, annoyed."Ah, forgot to introduce myself." The young man gave a casual salute with his free hand—surprisingly sharp in execution. "Acting captain of the '( ) Squad'. Name's not important. Just take the bread first.""( ) Squad?" Miguel frowned. "The one always at the bottom of the reports? The one even the instructors sigh about whenever they bring it up?""Yep, that '( )'." The captain didn't dodge the question. He even smiled. "If you've heard of us, I'd say we're at least a bit famous.""Bad reputation counts as fame?" Miguel scoffed, but still took the bread. "So, what do you want? Came to enjoy the show?""If I were here for a show, I'd bring wine, not bread." The captain plopped down next to him. "I'm here to recruit.""Recruit…?""Yeah." The captain turned to look at him. "You run solo on the front lines, take more missions than logistics can keep track of, and don't have a single person to talk to. HQ doesn't dare assign you to the 'elite' squads, so I figured—why not try a squad that's definitely not elite?""…"Miguel nearly choked on the bread. "You've got to be kidding.""Dead serious." The captain raised three fingers. "First, I admit it—we're weak. Second, we really do need someone who can fight. Third—""Third, you think I'll carry your squad out of last place all by myself?" Miguel cut in. "Sorry. I'm not here to clean up after anyone."The captain blinked, then laughed. "That's a pretty accurate metaphor.""I'm not joking." Miguel bit off a piece of bread, his tone flat. "Ever since I left 'Blood Blade,' I've had enough trouble. If this is some joke to you, find someone else.""You think I don't know?" The captain didn't get angry. He simply folded his hands over his knees. "I can guess what kind of report they wrote about you over there. But on the battlefield, reports are only half the story. The living person is the other half.""You implying official reports aren't trustworthy?""Did I say that?" The captain smiled, all innocence. "I'm just saying—anyone who can solo that many missions and still sit here eating bread is not useless, whether or not they're 'a problem'."Miguel was silent for a few seconds, then shook his head. "You've got it wrong. I work alone because there's no squad left for me. If you take me in, your team'll be branded 'problem squad' too.""No worries. Our rep is already so bad it can't get worse." The captain let out a soft sigh. "Instead of worrying about what others think, maybe we should start asking what kind of people we want to become.""I want to be someone who can kill the enemy," Miguel said, teeth clenched. "Not someone dragged down by others.""Perfect." The captain stood and offered his hand. "Join us, and let's figure out how to turn the ones dragging behind… into people who can kill the enemy too.""…"Miguel didn't take the hand."If you're really into the 'redeem the troubled youth' act," he muttered, turning his head away, "I suggest trying out for a theatre troupe. The military doesn't need that."The captain didn't press. He just retracted his hand and dusted off his pants. "Such a clean rejection."With that, he turned and walked away.
Miguel thought that was the end of it.But over the next few days, he realized he'd attracted a clingy ghost.
At breakfast, just as he was about to find a quiet corner, someone plopped their tray across from him. "Oh, what a coincidence—running into you again."…During his nap in the equipment room, the door creaked open halfway: "Mind if we talk about training schedules?"…At the shooting range, the captain leaned on the divider, watching Miguel hit bullseyes. "Nice, nice. If someone like you doesn't help train the rookies, what a waste."…Even when picking up gear: "Hey, just in time. What would you recommend for a bunch of greenhorns?"
"You got nothing better to do?" Miguel finally snapped. "Doesn't your squad need your attention?""They do." The captain grinned. "That's why I want one more person like you.""I've told you a dozen times—I'm not joining.""Then tell me a thirteenth. I'll listen." He didn't miss a beat. "The more stubborn your refusal, the more I think you've got a strong sense of duty."…He was like one of those training dummies that never fall—no matter how hard you hit, it always bounced back.
Miguel was getting annoyed.
But more than that, he couldn't deny one thing:This man—this always-smiling, annoyingly persistent man—had never once looked at him with pity, regret, or judgment. Not even when "Blood Blade" came up.He simply saw him as "someone who can fight."
That, more than anything, was dangerous.
"…I have one condition," Miguel said one evening, right after the base's PA finished a roll call announcement. He stopped the captain in the corridor.
"Oh?" The captain's eyes lit up. "Go on.""If I join," Miguel stared at him, "I'm not here to carry your burden. I'll follow orders, but tactical mistakes, bad calls—whoever's fault it is, owns it.""Of course." The captain answered seriously. "I never planned to make you my shield.""…Then let's try it."Even as the words left his mouth, Miguel wasn't sure what exactly he was agreeing to.
The first time he met the full squad, he thought he'd walked into the wrong room.Six people in a cramped space:One dropped her bandages when he entered—clearly the medic.Another, glasses askew, stared blankly at reports.A guy who looked like a heavy weapons specialist was scribbling ballistic data in a corner.A twig-thin figure with daggers on his waist stood like he wanted to disappear.
"Come on, everyone, say hi." The captain cheerfully pulled out a chair for him. "This is our new—no, future ace. You probably know the name already, so I won't repeat it.""…Hello." The medic was the first to step forward, hand shaking. "I—I'm the team's medic… still in training."Miguel nodded, shook her hand, then looked at the rest.
"I handle comms." The one with glasses pushed up his frame. "I'm very thorough… though I do get nervous.""Obvious," Miguel thought.
The rest introduced themselves: recon, fire support, logistics… All the roles were there. But every person seemed to carry a quiet question:"Am I really meant to be here?"
And suddenly Miguel understood why this squad was called "( )".
They weren't completely useless—They just didn't look like they belonged on a battlefield
"Anyway," the captain clapped his hands, "starting today, we're officially on the same team. We're not expecting you to pull off some big mission right away. Just focus on being a little better than yesterday."
"…Captain, do you really think he'll want to stay with us?" the recon soldier muttered, thinking Miguel couldn't hear.
"He will," the captain answered without hesitation. "Since he's here, I believe he's already made his decision."
But Miguel knew—the decision was only half-made.The other half was a kind of stubborn defiance he didn't want to admit to:If the so-called "elite squads" didn't want him, then fine—he'd prove that even a squad stamped as "the weakest," if they were willing to work, could still tear through enemies.
Reality, however, gave him a harsh slap.
Their first joint operation was to clear a reconnaissance outpost near the front.By all accounts, it was a low-risk mission—perfect for warming up as a new team.
Five minutes after deployment, their formation was already falling apart.The recon soldier, too nervous, walked half a beat too fast and had to be yanked back behind cover by Miguel.The comms officer stuttered during a transmission and almost gave the wrong coordinates.The medic, weighed down by the heavy field kit, stumbled over rocks—twice.
"Keep spacing! Don't bunch up!" Miguel hissed, trying not to shout. "Clustering together just makes you one big, human-shaped target!"
They tried to adjust—but tried too hard.Their movements became stiff and robotic, like a training drill.
When they reached the engagement point, two were meant to cover while two advanced—but both advance members hesitated for just half a second.That was all the enemy needed to counterattack.
It almost ended in disaster.
Though they completed the mission, it was just barely.No one was hurt, but there was nothing to brag about either.
On the way back, silence hung over them.Not out of resentment, but something worse—self-awareness.
"…I'm sorry," the medic whispered during the debrief. "If I'd moved faster, you wouldn't have had to loop around like that."
"I misread a number," the comms officer muttered, staring at his logbook. "The formation fell apart right then."
The recon soldier stared at the floor. "I should've spotted that hidden sentry…"
A few glances shifted toward Miguel.They weren't blaming him, not even silently.They didn't even voice "hope."But the mix of guilt and quiet expectation in the air was suffocating.
Miguel rubbed at his forehead.
—He couldn't say, "You're hopeless."—But he also couldn't say, "You did great."Because by objective standards, the result had been barely passable—nowhere near a qualified squad.
"All right, that's it for now," the captain stepped in at the right time. "First joint op, and everyone came back in one piece. That alone is a win. The rest—we'll fix step by step."
"…But Captain," someone finally spoke up, "what if… we're just not cut out to be soldiers?"
That sentence dropped like a stone into water, drawing out all the silence that had been hiding below.
"I'm too slow, and my aim's bad.""I panic too easily—I'm not like those calm, decisive commanders.""I still freeze when I see blood…"
They blurted out the things they'd never dared say aloud—each word soaked in self-disappointment.It wasn't the kind of despair that screamed for discharge.It was quieter.Like they were already preparing themselves—to be reassigned, replaced, forgotten.
"You really think you're not meant to be soldiers?" the captain asked.
No one answered, but the look on their faces said it all.
Miguel stood to the side, watching, chest heavy with something he couldn't quite name.—He knew how to take revenge, how to kill, how to calculate risk and reward.—But this… comforting people who were barely holding together…That wasn't something he knew how to do.
It was the captain who finally broke the silence.
"Then tell me—what kind of person is 'cut out' to be a soldier?" he asked with a small smile. "Someone born without fear? Someone who gets excited by gunfire? Someone who never makes mistakes? Who walks onto the battlefield and becomes invincible?"
"…"
"If that kind of person exists," the captain shrugged, "they should go be a storybook hero. They don't belong in our little squad."
He paused, voice softening with seriousness."I admit—we're weak. That label isn't wrong. That's why we're '( ) Squad'—not even worthy of a proper name.But there are two kinds of weak."
"One kind gives up, thinking nothing will ever change.The other kind knows they're not enough… but still chooses to keep learning."
The squad members looked up.
"Which one are you?" the captain asked.
No one could answer right away.
"That's okay. Take your time," he added gently. "As long as you don't give up on yourselves, I won't give up on you. It's that simple."
Miguel watched him, and for the first time, couldn't reconcile the always-smiling, seemingly unreliable man in front of him with the steady voice that had just spoken.
—Was this guy truly naïve…Or just stubborn in the way that takes effort?
That night, the meeting ended late.One by one, the squad left the room.Some kept their heads down.Some forced a smile and said "Good night" to the captain.
Miguel meant to leave too.But somehow, his footsteps stopped at the door.
He stood outside, back against the wall, listening to the voices from within.
"…Captain, sorry. I held everyone back again today," came the recon soldier's timid voice.
"You did way better than last time," the captain said kindly. "Back then, you didn't even dare leave cover. Today, at least you took a step forward."
"But that step almost got everyone hurt…"
"That's why we keep practicing," the captain chuckled. "No one's perfect from day one. Not even me."
After a pause, the medic spoke: "If only my hands were steadier, I could've treated the wound faster…"
"They're already way better than during basic training," the captain replied thoughtfully. "Back then, you couldn't tie two bandages the same way. Now? You can give an injection on a moving truck."
Then came the comms officer, the fire support member…One by one, they entered.And one by one, they left again.
The captain never said "It's not your fault."He never said "You're amazing."But he pointed out every real issue—And still managed to find a piece of progress for each person.It was like watching someone carefully glue together scraps of broken confidence.
The hallway outside was quiet.Only that room occasionally echoed with a soft reassurance, a crisp "I understand."
Miguel leaned against the wall, fingertips unconsciously brushing the dog tag at his waist.
He didn't know why he was still there.
Maybe because it all felt too unfamiliar—In his old squad, no one ever spent time comforting the "weak links."Their philosophy was simple:Whoever couldn't keep up—got replaced.
"…What a bunch of fools," Miguel muttered under his breath—Though he didn't know if he was talking about them…Or about himself.
When the door finally opened again, it was late.The last squadmate came out with red eyes.Seeing Miguel still outside, they blinked, muttered "Good night," and quickly left.
Inside, only the captain remained.He didn't come out immediately.Instead, Miguel heard him exhale—long and deep, like he was letting go of the day's fatigue all at once.
Then came the sound of a chair shifting.And the captain, speaking softly to no one in particular:
"…It's okay. We still have time."
Miguel stood outside in silence, fingers curling without meaning to.
That night, for the first time, he realized something:
—In this squad called "( )",The only one who had never once doubted them…Was the captain who never stopped smiling.