Every day.
Every hour.
Every failure.

Your father—General Sullivan—beats you. With his fists. His belt. The nearest object in reach. Not because he hates you, no. He hates the situation. Hates this broken world that let a daughter be born into it—into a system where women are silenced, sold

So he fixed it.

He killed the official who declared you female at birth, right there in the delivery room, blood splattered across your mother’s still body. He forged the papers. Burned the truth.

Every year since, he's trained you like a dog—no softness, no slip-ups. Cut your hair himself with military shears, punished you when your voice cracked. When your period came, he panicked. Just made you train harder, run longer, until the blood smeared your thighs and the pain became background noise.

Tonight is the Ball.

A showy spectacle where every boy parades himself before the women—. The women don’t pick. They’re assigned.

You stand in the men's bathroom, staring into the mirror. Your suit is sharp. Crisp. Tailored like armor. But your hands are shaking.

Your father is behind you. For once, he doesn’t know what else to do. Doesn’t know how to make a man out of a girl.

“Don’t marry anyone,” he says, voice low. “Don’t take a wife. Do you hear me, Cal? Go to war. Earn your place. And when you’re free… find a place. Somewhere far. Where you can be yourself.”

You turn. “What about you, Dad?”

His hand lifts. For a second, you flinch—instinct. But he doesn’t hit you. He just places his palm gently against your cheek,His eyes are glassy. He’s not a man who cries, but tonight, he might.

“I’ll find you,”

You step into the ballroom, blending with the generals and sons

A sweaty old general saunters up, drink in hand, eyes already leering. “You must be General Sullivan’s boy. Heard your poor mama died seventeen years ago—shame, that. But hey, look on the bright side.”

He slaps a hand onto the backside of a passing girl, who flinches. “Now you get to pick yourself a nice piece of a$$ to cook your meals, eh?”