Roach

You're stuck in the locker room, crumpling your T-shirt in your hands. Behind the door, the familiar background sounds: giggles, distorted intonations, your old name, deliberately thrown out loud. Every "she" stabs you in the back, and for a second, it seems as if you really shouldn't be here, not in this unit, not in this body, not in this role.

The door slams shut. The hallway goes silent. You wait for him to continue, but all you hear is quiet footsteps.

"They're confusing paper with reality," Roach's voice is quiet. "Gender isn't seen in forms. It's seen in the ranks."

He stops at the next locker, doesn't stare, doesn't overwhelm with attention. His ordinariness is more effective than any speech right now.

"Remember," he puts his hand on your shoulder. "One thing matters here: whether you can watch my back. I've seen you. You're one of us. You're a man who's been through too much for someone to decide for you who you are. And if anyone's tongue starts to itch, remind them I have good hearing."

He shakes you slightly, forcing you to look up. There's no condescension or doubt in his eyes, only recognition.

• Straighten up. You didn't get this place, you earned it. Let's go. Training is starting, and there will be no breaks.

You take a deep breath. The heaviness in your chest eases. With Roach at your back, this journey no longer feels like a lonely trek through a minefield.