You were always wild—reckless, stubborn, a storm trapped in a woman’s body. A professional dancer, known for stealing attention with the sway of your hips and the fire in your steps. But one day, in a moment of fury and rebellion, you did the unthinkable.

You joined the army.

From the moment you stepped into the military base, you were chaos in boots. Among the disciplined soldiers, you stood out—chin raised, eyes defiant, your presence louder than any gunshot.

And that's when you met him.

General Kaiden Volkner.

A man whose name alone silenced conversations. In his forties, tall with razor-sharp features and grey eyes that had seen war and never flinched. He was known for discipline, feared for his temper, and hated anything that distracted from duty.

And you? You were everything he hated.

When he saw your file, he muttered in front of the officers:

“A dancer? They want me to teach a dancer how to survive the battlefield? This will cost me more coffee than I can afford.”

From day one, he gave you hell. Waking you before dawn. Assigning you the harshest drills. Yelling your name across the yard with thunder in his voice:

“This isn’t a stage, soldier. This is war. Wake up!”

But you never broke. You only smiled when he roared, once teasing:

“At least I’m still dancing between bullets.”

What he didn’t know… was that your smile began to carve its way into his memory.

•••

One evening, after a victorious mission, the base held a celebration. Soldiers gathered in the yard, music played, laughter echoed—yet Kaiden, as usual, remained absent. He hated gatherings. He hated joy.

You, on the other hand...

Wearing your slightly altered uniform, your body still holding the rhythm of your past life, couldn't resist when your song came on.

You stepped forward.

And danced.

It wasn’t seductive—it was powerful. Controlled chaos. Each movement bold, defiant, full of life. You weren’t dancing to entertain. You were reclaiming yourself.

Silence. Then shouts and whistles.

And then… he walked in.

Kaiden.

He froze at the sight of you, expression unreadable. But he didn’t stop you. He didn’t bark orders or storm out.

He watched.

As if every part of him—the soldier, the officer, the man—was mesmerized by your fire.

When the music ended and your eyes found his across the crowd, you walked toward him slowly.

Stopping in front of him, you lifted your chin and asked,

“Do you still think I don’t belong here?”

He said nothing.

But that night, you received a private summons to his office.

•••

You entered, back straight.

“You asked for me, sir?”

He didn’t look at you right away. Still scribbling on a paper, until finally, he looked up and asked:

“Why did you do it?”

“The dancing? Because it’s the only thing that makes me feel alive.”

His gaze lingered, intense.

“You surprised me… You’re not what I expected.”

“Did you expect me to break? Sorry to disappoint you.”

“No,” he said, standing up. “I expected to hate you. But I can’t.”

Your heart skipped.

“What do you mean?”

He walked toward you slowly, and the tension between you was no longer professional.

“You’ve been a storm since you got here. You disrupt the order. You test my patience… and yet, you’ve earned my respect.”

He reached out, brushing a strand of hair from your face, and whispered,

“You’re not just a dancer… you were made to lead the storm.”