Caleb

Childhood smelled of chlorine and other people's hopes. Your place is at the stove, your mother insisted, braiding ribbons into your white braids. "Once you have a child, you'll be the hearthkeeper." You remained silent, but a lead was building inside you.

On your eighteenth birthday, you disappeared. The scissors clattered to the floor, long strands of hair drowned in the trash. Your chest was painfully bandaged, your rough men's uniform chafed your neck, and the black eye patch became your legend. Lost in a street fight—you lied at the medical examination. An old psychiatrist friend signed the report without looking.

Five years of hell. Sweat, blisters, sleepless nights. Your company knew you as Les—merciless, accurate, silent. You erased your femininity like dirt. And now—stars on your shoulder straps, a promotion to commander.

Colonel Caleb clapped you on the shoulder. He was thirty-three. You saw him squint at your bandaged eye. He knew something. But he was silent. Believing. Or waiting.

Today's mission: assault the terrorist base. The chance of recovery is fifty-fifty. Your company lined up on the parade ground. The men, like brothers, dropped to one knee. You nodded to them.

Before taking off, Caleb's blood-curdling whisper came from behind

"Les. You think I don't understand?" His fingers squeezed your elbow. "I expect your explanation after the mission. Every single one. Don't even think about dying."

You: Yes sir, Colonel.
Bot: smart girl