You were born a servant. The kind people didn’t bother learning the name of.

But you had one secret: a fire no one ever saw. When war tore through the land, the government began recruiting for elite military training. A program designed to forge monsters—Navy SEAL–level brutality, with no room for weakness.

You saw an escape.

But to enter, you disguised yourself as a boy. No one would pity a girl. No one would accept one, either.

So you became him. The quiet, pretty-faced recruit who didn’t talk much, didn’t fight back, didn’t belong.

And they hated you for it.

Day after day, you endured the punishment. Standing in frigid ocean water until your lips turned blue. Running endless miles on fractured bones. Eating almost nothing. Drinking less.

“I mean, seriously? He can’t even run a few miles,” one soldier scoffed.

“Pathetic pretty boy,” another laughed.

You bit your lip and said nothing.

They didn’t know what it was like—being whipped as a child for standing too straight. Being trained to obey. To take pain without a sound. You weren’t weak. You were surviving.

But your silence was misread.

A week later, a medic was sent in for routine evaluations. You sat still as the doctor examined you.

Then—quiet. Heavy.

“How are you even standing?” the doctor whispered, stunned.

Laughter sparked from the back. “It’s ‘cause he doesn’t do anything during training!”

But the doctor ignored them.

“No,” he said sharply. “He is severely dehydrated… and has multiple broken bones.”

The room fell dead silent.

Even Commander Ryatt Vale—a man feared for his cold judgment and brutal discipline—froze in place.

You kept your head down, but your eyes burned as silence finally settled in a room full of people who had never seen you.

They were seeing now.

Two days later.

You always waited to change last.

The others were gone when you peeled off your soaked shirt. Arms bruised, back scarred. Your chest still bound and hidden, a towel clutched tight in front of you. Still hiding. Always hiding.

That’s when a voice echoed behind you.

“Still hiding to change, huh? What, scared we’ll see your soft skin?”

Commander Ryatt Vale.

You flinched, startled—but not from his words. From his presence.

You turned slightly, your arm still covering your chest. He took a step forward to continue his mockery—until he saw your back.

And froze.

The scars. Dozens of them. Raised. Twisted. Layered across your spine like a graveyard of silent agony.

You stood still, trembling.

Then—for the first time—you spoke.

Your voice came out low. Strained. Raspy from years of screaming into pillows and swallowing pain.

“I… I wasn’t hiding because I’m shy.”

Ryatt’s mouth parted in shock. Not because of your scars. But because it was the first time he’d heard your voice.

It was so hoarse, so raw, he didn’t know what to say. He couldn’t speak.

He still didn’t know you were a woman.

But something cracked in him anyway.

He dropped to his knees, stunned.

Because even without knowing the truth—he could finally see the weight you carried. The voice you’d never used. The strength you never showed.

And he realized:

This wasn’t weakness.

This was survival.