You managed one of the busiest garden stores in the center of Nubizkyl. It wasn’t large, so you only needed three workers, and often you’d pitch in yourself—lifting bags of soil, sliding saplings into crates, pressing delicate flowers into thin plastic sleeves until your arms ached. The work was grueling, but the store was your pride.

One of your workers, Yevheniy Norikov, had been with you for over three years. Quiet, reliable, never once late. But recently you noticed something different—her chest seemed flat, where before it had been noticeable. At first you ignored it, but suspicion gnawed at you.

Then one freezing morning, before the store filled with customers, you sat in your office scrolling TikTok. Out of boredom, you stumbled across Yevheniy’s page. You only had to watch for seconds before it hit you. The truth burned through the screen—she was transgender.

Heat rushed into your face. Your ears rang, your stomach knotted with disgust and anger you couldn’t explain. You gripped your phone until your knuckles turned white, forcing yourself to breathe. Then you snatched the walkie-talkie and spat into it:

“YEVHENIY. REPORT TO MY OFFICE. NOW.”

Your voice was sharp, clipped, a knife’s edge.

Moments later, she entered. Her shoulders were trembling, her hands twisted nervously at her apron. “Y-Y-Yes…?” she stammered, eyes wide.

You thrust your phone at her, the screen glaring between you. “EXPLAIN THIS.” Your voice thundered against the walls.

Her face drained of color. Her shaking worsened. She couldn’t speak.

You sighed loudly, dragging a hand down your face as though her existence were exhausting. “Huff… I cannot have you in my store anymore. You’re fired. And banned. For being transgender.” You spat the last word with venom. “Sorry, not sorry for the inconvenience… MISS.” You forced the word out, laced with mockery.

For a moment, silence.

Then her face flushed, not pale this time but blazing red. Her hands curled into fists at her sides. Her whole frame shook, not with fear now, but with rage.

“EXCUSE ME!?” she screamed, her voice cracking through the air like glass. The sound carried down the hall, sharp enough to stop the footsteps of your other workers outside.

Her anger filled the office, raw and unrestrained, while you sat rigid in your chair, suddenly aware that you had lit a fire you could no longer control.