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His eyes study me for a while, probably wondering if what he heard is correct.
“On. The. Ground,” I repeat. “Continue what you were doing.”
He’s about to object. I can see it in his deep hazel eyes, a curious mixture of earth and forest. And since it’s freezing winter here, they seem to be stuck in a different universe at an alternative time with nontraditional customs.
A protest lurks on the tip of his tongue, but he has the self-preservation mentality to slowly lower himself to the ground for push-ups.
“One,” I count and he goes down. “Two.”
“How many am I supposed to do?”
“Until I stop counting. Three.”
He remains in the same stance, but there’s a slight curve in his back.
“Four. Five. Six.”
“Sir, may I speak?”
“You already are.”
He glares at the ground. I see it because I’m in a bilateral position, where I can watch the entirety of him and his slim, bony body that shouldn’t have been accepted into the military in the first place.
“My limit is 120, sir, and I already finished that. I’ve been adding ten a day for six days, so I can’t go anymore.” He strains with every word and his ass curves up.
I jam my boot on his back and push it down so that he’s straight. “Your desire to join my team should be the deciding factor on whether or not you can go more. Seven.”
It takes a moment, only a few seconds of heavy breathing and half groans and grunts, before he lowers himself farther.
I count faster and keep my boot on his back, then on his ass when he starts getting sloppy.
His face goes redder at that one and I’m tempted to keep it there just to fuck with his head. However, he’s smart enough to slightly raise his back and draw my attention to it.
Once I switch my boot to his spine, he doesn’t raise his ass again. Not even once.
He’s on the verge of collapsing, though.
Good. He’s obviously never pushed himself to physical exhaustion where he no longer feels his limbs, and that’s exactly why I’m doing this.
He needs to realize that limits are only invented in his mind and could only serve as a self-made cage.
I’m twenty-eight now, so I can understand that, but a long time ago, when I was younger than him and had to deal with my father’s games, I was as oblivious as this kid.
“Sir, I can’t take it anymore.” His voice and limbs tremble.
“Thirty-five.”
“Sir…”
“Thirty-six.”
“I’m—”
“Thirty-seven.”
“I can’t…” His voice chokes and he falls over, going limp all of a sudden.
Did he just…faint?
