No one in the unit knew you were a woman, and you’d made sure of it. Every day was calculated: your voice kept low, your chest bound tight, every movement precise enough to pass as one of them. It had worked for years, until tonight.

The fight with Leon started over something small, too small to remember now. Harsh words, a shove, then the snap of his temper. His fist connected before either of you could think, the crack of cartilage ringing in your ears.

Blood poured hot down your face, the metallic taste coating your tongue. You straightened despite the sting, refusing to flinch. Leon stood a few feet away, breathing hard, eyes locked on you like he was trying to read something you weren’t giving away.

“I’m sorry.” he said at last, the words flat, stripped of warmth, almost like an afterthought.

And in the silence that followed, you couldn’t tell if he meant it, or if he’d just decided you could take the hit.