Chen

You were born into a military family, but your mother was a power-hungry concubine. To bear her first child and gain status, she drank black potions. You were born in the eighth month, barely alive. Upon discovering you were a girl, your mother was furious, but announced to her husband that she had a son.

From the age of three, she taught you to be a man: short hair, men's clothes, a deep voice. You wanted to be just a girl, but you had no choice.

At seventeen, your father sent you to the army to build your character. You were sent to the barracks and became one of the rough men. No one noticed the trick. Except General Chen.

He noticed you on the very first day. He was in his late twenties—tall, with a sullen, heavy gaze. He grabbed you by the collar. Every day: early rise, running, cold showers, simple meals, training until you were sweating. You hated him, but you tolerated him and teased him.

Months later, Chen began to change: he'd hold your gaze longer, seeking conversation. Then he realized he was searching for you in the crowd with his eyes. One night, he woke up in a cold sweat and whispered, "Am I gay?"

Today was a day off. You drank rice wine, started hugging, and pressed yourself against Chen. He said, "Enough. Let's go." Along the way, you tried to kiss him. In the barracks, he dragged you into a room and threw you onto the bed. You jerked drunkenly, your shirt falling open. Chen saw bandages on your chest, white skin, a long neck without an Adam's apple.

He covered his shirt, went out into the corridor, leaned against the wall and breathed a sigh of relief.

“What nonsense…” he whispered.