Chapter 1: The Objective

The hallway at Northwood High smelled of floor wax and teenage arrogance.

A smell that always made my stomach churn.

He walked with a rhythm impossible to hide.

Clonk.

Buzzing.

Passed.

My left leg was a heavy, industrial mechanical piece.

It wasn’t one of those lightweight carbon fiber sheets you see at the Paralympics.

It was iron and steel, built in a garage, heavy and purely functional.

He kept his chin tucked to his chest, staring at the worn tiles.

Just go to math, I told myself.

Just keep walking.

But the ecosystem of a high school hallway is predatory.

And I felt the predators behind me.

“Look, the Terminator is leaking oil,” a voice mocked right behind my left ear.

I shuddered, but I didn’t stop.

It was Brad and his group.

They were the ‘kings’ of Year 3 — five boys in expensive sneakers who always walked in threes to force everyone else out of the way.

“Hey, Tin Man! Where’s your oil can?” shouted another voice.

The heavy rumble of his sneakers was getting closer.

They didn’t just pass by.

They were cornering me.

My father had warned me about boys like them.

“Lily,” she had said in a deep, serious voice, “people fear what they do not understand.

And when they are afraid, they attack.

Always keep your eyes open.

Dad was… intense.

To the neighbors, he was just Mr. Vance, the quiet man who repaired lawnmowers and didn’t talk much.

Sometimes he would leave for months on ‘contract work’ and return with new scars and an even darker look.

I accelerated, the pistons in my knee hissed.

“Hey, don’t run! We just want to see how that thing works!”

I felt a hand grab the strap of my backpack.

“Let me go!” I gasped as I tried to break free.

“Oops,” Brad laughed.

He wouldn’t let go of me.

Instead, he pushed.

Strong.

It wasn’t a playful push.

It was a full-force shove right between my shoulder blades.

Physics took over.

My heavy metal leg couldn’t be adjusted quickly enough.

My center of gravity disappeared.

I fell forward, my hands searching for a support that wasn’t there.

Chapter 2: The Arrival

I hit the ground with an impact that made my teeth chatter.

But the sound that silenced the hallway was not the sound of my body.

It was the one with the leg.

CRACK.

The sound of a metal bolt breaking.

I felt the leg twist beneath me, the knee joint locking into a grotesque and unnatural 90-degree angle.

A sharp pain shot through my thigh where the metal support pressed against my skin.

“Woah!” Brad shouted, feigning surprise.

“¡Tiiimber!”

The hallway erupted in laughter.

It was a wave of sound that completely enveloped me.

I tried to get up, but my leg was like a block of lead.

Lot.

I lay there like a squashed insect on the cold ground.

Hot, angry tears filled my eyes.

I looked up.

They were in a semicircle around me, phones in hand, recording.

“Smile for the camera, Cyborg!”

“Look at that piece of junk,” Brad mocked as he kicked the tip of my metal foot.

“You should ask for a refund.”

I opened my mouth to scream, to curse them, when the double doors of the main entrance — fifteen meters away — suddenly flew open.

They didn’t open normally.

They hit the walls so hard it sounded like a gunshot.

The laughter stopped immediately.

My father was standing on the threshold.

He wasn’t wearing his grease-stained overalls.

She was wearing a black t-shirt and worn jeans, but she looked different.

Bigger.

He was completely motionless, his gaze sliding down the corridor.

His eyes were not those of a father coming to pick up a sick child.

They were the eyes of a predator assessing a kill zone.

He saw me on the ground.

He saw the broken leg.

She saw Brad over me with his phone.

The air seemed to become ten degrees colder.

Dad didn’t run.

Path.

But it was a scary walk.

Fluid, silent, and dangerously fast.

The walk of a man who had chased things far more dangerous than high school bullies.

The director, Mr. Henderson, came out of his office, red with anger.

“Mr. Vance! You can’t just walk in like that—”

Dad didn’t even look at him.

She continued walking, her gaze fixed on Brad.

“Dad,” I blurted out in a whisper.

He stopped in front of the boys.

Brad — one meter eighty three and a linebacker on the football team — suddenly seemed very small.

My father first knelt beside me.

His normally rough hands were surprisingly soft as he inspected the broken metal.

“Structural damage to the primary hinge,” he said quietly.

“Caused by external force.”

He looked at the bruise that was beginning to form on my arm.

“Did you fall, Lily?” he asked.

Her voice was icy.

I looked at Brad.

Brad looked at me — and for the first time I saw fear in him.

“No,” I whispered.

“They pushed me.”

My father got up.

She turned to Brad.

He didn’t scream.

There was no need to shout.

He entered Brad’s personal space and the other four boys instinctively backed away.

“Mr. Vance,” the director stammered, “I’m sure this is just a misunderstanding.

Boys sometimes—”

Dad put his hand in his back pocket.

He took out a leather wallet, but not to show a license.

She opened it.

A golden plaque.

And a military identification card with a red stripe across the top.

She held it up to the director’s eye level.

“I am Colonel James Vance, United States Special Operations Command,” my father said.

His voice was like scraping concrete.

“And you have exactly ten seconds to explain to me why five civilians attacked a relative of a high-ranking officer on his property.”

The director froze.

Brad dropped his phone.

It bounced off the ground, right next to my broken leg.

“A-an attack?” Brad squealed.

“It was a joke, man.

Just a little joke.”

My father slowly turned his head towards him.

“Just a joke,” he repeated.

He took another step forward.

“In my profession, kid, we have another term for an unprovoked attack against a target’s family.”

Dad smiled.

But his eyes remained cold.

“We call it a declaration of war.”

Chapter 3: The Chain of Command

The silence in the hallway was heavy enough to crush a tank.

Mr. Henderson, the director, looked at the red stripe on my father’s military ID card as if it were a live grenade.

She swallowed hard, her Adam’s apple trembling nervously.

“Colonel… I… had no idea,” Henderson stammered, as he wiped the sweat from his forehead with a handkerchief.

“Mr. Vance, we all thought you worked at… uh… the auto shop.”

“Yes, that’s what I do,” my father said, his voice cold and gentle.

“It keeps me grounded. It keeps me calm. But right now, Mr. Henderson, I’m not calm.”

She turned around, her back to the director, and looked at Brad.

The thug was trembling.

The bravado was gone.

He was just a seventeen-year-old boy realizing he had kicked a hornet’s nest the size of the Pentagon.

“My… my father is on the school board,” Brad stammered, searching for some resource.

“Meet the mayor.”

My father let out a short, dry laugh.

It was a terrifying sound.

“Son,” said Dad, leaning closer so only Brad could hear,

“The people I report to do not have meetings with the mayor.

They are having meetings about whether the mayor will maintain his security clearance.”

Dad bent down and picked up Brad’s phone from the floor — the one that had recorded the entire incident.

“Hey, that’s mine!” Brad protested weakly.

“Consider it evidence seized in an ongoing investigation into the assault of a clerk,” Dad said, putting the phone in his own pocket.

“You’ll get it back when the JAG lawyers are finished with him.”

He didn’t wait for a reply.

She turned towards me, and her face softened instantly.

“Can you stand up, soldier?” he asked gently.

“I don’t think so, Dad. The bracket is broken,” I said, pointing to the bent iron.

Without saying a word, he lifted me up.

He supported me effortlessly, my broken leg dangling.

As he led me towards the exit, the sea of ​​students parted like the Red Sea.

Nobody laughed. Nobody whispered.

At the door, Dad stopped and looked towards the principal.

“I expect to have a full report on my desk by 8:00 a.m. tomorrow. And you, Mr. Henderson?”

“Yes, Colonel?”

“If I find out those kids are in class tomorrow, I won’t come back with a lawyer. I’ll come back with my unit.”

We stepped out into the sunlight, leaving a hallway full of stunned teenagers behind us.

Chapter 4: The War Room

The journey home was quiet, but it wasn’t the tense silence of before.

It was the focused silence of a mission.

When we got to the garage, Dad didn’t just leave me on the couch.

He took me directly to his workbench.

This wasn’t just a garage; it was their sanctuary.

At first glance it looked like a messy workshop.

But if you knew where to look, you’d see high-quality welding equipment, military blueprints, and a secure communication line in the corner.

He sat me down on a stool and began to disassemble the broken prosthesis.

“I’m sorry, Dad,” I whispered, as I watched him examine the damage.

“I know how expensive the materials were.”

She looked up, her blue eyes intense.

“Lily, never apologize for the enemy’s actions. You held your position. The team failed, not you.”

He threw the broken iron bracket onto the metal table with a loud clang.

“Cheap alloy,” he muttered, angry with himself.

“I used 4140 steel because I didn’t want to attract attention.

I wanted you to seem normal. I wanted you to have a normal life.”

He approached a heavy safe at the back of the garage, hidden behind a pile of old tires.

He turned the dial — left, right, left. Click.

The heavy door opened.

Inside, it didn’t look like a mechanic’s warehouse.

There were stacks of documents stamped TOP SECRET, some weapons, and a long, thin metal case.

He pulled out a block of dark, silvery metal.

“Titanium and gold alloy,” he said, weighing it in his hand.

“Leftovers from a project I advised the Air Force on. It’s used in the landing gear of the A-10 Warthogs.”

She looked at me, a small smile appearing on her lips.

“Want to play rough? Fine. We’ll upgrade you to military specification.”

He did not speak for the next six hours.

Job.

Sparks flew from the grinder.

La máquina CNC zumbaba.

He was building something new. Something stronger.

While the machine was cutting the metal, he took the black secure phone from his toolbox.

He dialed a number.

“This is Vance,” he said.

“Code Black on my location. No, it’s not a terrorist threat. A local issue. I need the Perkins family files and the school board finances. Yes, tonight.”

He hung up.

“Dad,” I asked, “what are you doing?”

“I’m attacking the enemy on multiple fronts, Lily,” he said, wiping the grease off his hands.

“Brad thinks power is pushing people in a hallway. I’m going to show him what real power is.”

Chapter 5: Scorched Earth

The next morning I told Dad I didn’t want to go to school.

I was scared.

“You go,” he said firmly, handing me my backpack.

“And you keep walking.”

I looked at my leg.

Now it was different.

The rough iron had disappeared.

Instead, there was a sleek, matte black piece of engineering.

She looked dangerous.

It looked impressive.

“It won’t break,” he promised.

“You could kick a hole in a brick wall with that.”

When we arrived at the school, the atmosphere had changed.

Normally, there were some parents’ cars and the yellow buses.

Today there were three black SUVs parked in the fire lane right in front of the main entrance.

Men in dark suits stood by the doors, with their arms crossed.

“Who are they?” I asked.

“Lawyers and some friends from the base who had the day off,” Dad said matter-of-factly.

We got out of the truck.

Today Dad wasn’t wearing his mechanic’s clothes.

He wore his Service uniform — dark blue jacket, perfectly pressed trousers and a chest full of medals that shone in the sun.

The Silver Star. The Purple Heart. The heavy, distinctive insignia of the Special Forces.

He looked like a hero.

He looked like a god.

As we climbed the steps, the “regulators” — Brad and his group — stood by the door, pale with fear.

His parents were there too, furious, shouting at the principal.

“This is ridiculous!” Brad’s father shouted. “My son is a minor! They can’t suspend him for a little roughhousing!”

Then they saw us.

The shouting stopped immediately.

Brad looked at my father.

He looked at the uniform.

He looked at the rank insignia.

In three seconds, her face went from bright red to paper white.

My father walked straight towards them.

He didn’t stop until he was nose to nose with Brad’s father.

“Mr. Perkins,” my father said. His voice was calm, but it echoed throughout the yard.

—I understand that you are upset about your son’s suspension.

“Well, listen carefully,” Mr. Perkins began, his voice trembling. “I know people—”

“You own three car dealerships,” my father interrupted, reciting the information from memory. “And according to the audit my team conducted last night, you’re currently failing to declare about 40 percent of your taxable income.”

—The tax agency should… arrive any moment.

As if they had rehearsed it, a sedan with government credentials entered the parking lot, behind the black SUVs.

Mr. Perkins was out of breath.

My father turned to Brad.

The bully cowered against the brick wall.

—And you —said my father, looking at the boy’s shoes—. You like to break things, don’t you?

My father pointed at my new matte black leg.

—Come on. Kick him. I dare you.

Brad didn’t move.

He looked like he was about to vomit.

“That’s what I thought,” my father said.

He put his hand on my shoulder.

—Come on, Lily. You have a story.

We walked past them.

I walked upright.

My new leg didn’t squeak.

It was buzzing with precise force.

Passed.

Silence.

Passed.

Silence.

She was no longer the girl with the broken iron leg.

She was the Commander’s daughter.

And for the first time in my life, I didn’t look at the ground.

I looked ahead.

Chapter 6: The New Normal

Walking through the double doors of Northwood High that morning felt like stepping onto another planet.

Yesterday I was invisible until I became a target.

Today was the point of gravity.

As I walked toward my locker, the hallway opened up.

Not out of repulsion this time, but out of genuine caution, with eyes wide open.

The rumor machine had clearly been working overtime.

Everyone knew it.

They knew about the black SUVs.

They knew about the tax inspectors who had raided Mr. Perkins’s dealership.

They knew that the “mechanic” who repaired their parents’ transmissions was actually someone who could shake a government with a single phone call.

I got to my locker and turned the combination.

18-24-06.

—Hola, Lily.

I turned around.

It was Sarah, one of the cheerleaders who usually looked at me as if I were made of glass.

She was holding a cookie.

“I… uh… I heard what happened yesterday with your leg,” she stammered, nervously eyeing the matte titanium peeking out from under the hem of my jeans.

—It was crazy. We’re glad you’re okay.

I looked at the cookie.

I looked at her.

“Thank you, Sarah,” I said firmly.

“Is it true?” she whispered, leaning towards me. “Is your dad really a spy?”

“He’s not a spy,” I said, slamming my locker shut. “He’s just a father who doesn’t tolerate bullies.”

I walked away.

My new leg didn’t just look stronger; it made me stronger.

The hydraulic system that my father had installed gave me a slight spring when walking.

He was no longer dragging a dead weight.

She was driven.

Chapter 7: The White Flag

Lunchtime used to be the hardest part of the day.

I usually sat in the library to avoid the hierarchy of the cafeteria.

But today my father had ordered me to maintain my position.

“If you hide, they win,” he said during breakfast.

So I went into the cafeteria.

The noise level was reduced by half as soon as I entered.

I walked to a table in the center —prime territory— and sat down.

A moment later, a shadow fell upon my table.

I tensed up, my hand instinctively going to the solid metal of my knee.

If it was Brad, she was ready to use her leg as a weapon.

But it wasn’t Brad.

They were the other four boys in his group —the “regulators”.

They no longer looked like kings.

They looked like frightened children.

They held their trays awkwardly, moving their feet.

—Lily —said one of them.

It was Mike, the one who had made the “oil can” joke.

He looked like he hadn’t slept.

“What do you want, Mike?” I asked, opening my yogurt.

“We… we wanted to apologize,” he murmured, looking at the ground. “For what happened yesterday. And… for everything.”

“Do you really mean it?” I asked, looking him in the eye. “Or are you just scared because Brad’s suspended and his dad’s under investigation?”

Mike swallowed loudly.

—Both. Honestly, both.

He left a sealed envelope on the table.

—We all contribute. It’s… it’s for the repairs. For the old leg.

I looked at the envelope.

It was full of money.

Probably your monthly allowance for the next six months.

I didn’t touch it.

—My father already repaired it—I said coldly.—He made it better.

—Keep your money.

—But if you touch me again, or anyone else in this school, even just once, I won’t call the principal.

I touched the black titanium cover of my knee.

Clac–clac.

—I’ll call the Colonel.

Mike nodded quickly.

—Understood. Completely.

They withdrew.

I watched them walk away.

I took a deep breath.

For the first time in three years, the food didn’t taste like fear.

It tasted like victory.

Chapter 8: The Commander’s Lesson

When the last bell rang, I walked toward the parking lot.

The black SUVs were gone.

The show of force was over.

My father was leaning against his battered Ford F-150, his work shirt stained with oil again.

The dress uniform was already hanging back in the closet.

He looked tired, but when he saw me, his face lit up.

“How was it?” he asked as he threw my backpack in the back.

“Relax,” I smiled. “Brad’s friends apologized.”

—They gave me space.

“Good,” he agreed.

He opened the passenger door for me.

On the way home, passing by familiar houses, I looked at him.

-Dad.

—Yes, Lil?

“Why didn’t you ever tell me?” I asked gently. “I knew you were in the army, but I didn’t know… you were that.”

He sighed and drummed his fingers on the steering wheel.

—When I came home, Lily, I wanted to leave the war behind.

—I wanted to be a father who builds birdhouses and repairs cars.

—I didn’t want you to grow up fearing my world.

—I wanted you to be normal.

He took my hand and squeezed it.

—But yesterday I realized I made a mistake.

—I tried so hard to protect you from my past that I didn’t prepare you for your present.

—I let you think you were weak, because I was afraid to show you how strong we really are.

I looked at my new leg.

The titanium-gold alloy caught the sunlight.

It was no longer a medical device.

It was armor.

“I’m not normal, Dad,” I said, running my fingers over the rivets. “And I never will be.”

“No,” he said, smiling proudly. “You’re not.”

—You’re titanium.

—And that’s much better than normal.

We entered the entrance of the house.

The sun was setting, the shadows were lengthening.

I jumped out of the truck and landed firmly on my new leg.

I no longer limp.

I no longer hid.

The abusers had broken the iron.

But they had revealed the steel underneath.

And they had learned it the hard way:

You never know who you’re messing with…

…until reinforcements arrive.