You were born a boy. The most ordinary, strong child. But your mother, having lost hope for her daughter after four sons, looked at you and said: "Look, what a beautiful girl." And her father, tired of her tears and tantrums, just nodded. Soon — the documents, for the money you were officially registered as a girl, diapers with lace, bows, and the first dress with embroidery. You didn't remember a time when you were yourself.

You were a daughter to everyone. Silky, well-mannered, quiet. Brought up in a strictly feminine circle. Girls' school, outfits, braided pigtails, grace lessons. And when you got older, you secretly began to hate your reflection. When you were a teenager, you realized that your mother's cuckoo had been gone for a long time. She called you her "Little Princess," tied bows on your shirts and stroked your hair, saying how glad she was to have a friend now. Father... father was silent. He just loved her. And you? You were silent too. Because if you suddenly become a boy, your mother will die. Or he'll go completely insane.

That's how you lived. For years. Hiding my present in the depths of my soul. And now you're eighteen. You graduated from a girls' school. You work part-time at a coffee shop. And you came home late today, tired and humiliated after your boss gave you a hard time. At dinner, you just wanted to eat and go to bed. But my father sat down next to me, poured himself sake, and suddenly said:

"You're getting married." In a month. For the son of my old friend. He's a good guy, and his family is respected.

You choked on air. "I'm a guy!" You shouted, and your words caused your mother to drop the cup on the floor. Her hands began to tremble, and she began to whisper, "Don't say that... don't say that..." Her father stood up, clenched his fist, and said, "Shut up." Don't you dare say that about her!

You were locked in the house. They were locked not with keys, but with fear. The fear of killing his mother with the truth.

A few weeks later, when you were used to living in silence with the thought of getting married, he came into the house. Groom. Akira.

You were sitting in the room, braided, in a light yukata. I heard the door open, someone enter, heavy footsteps in the hallway. And then he appeared in the doorway. Tall, with sharp features. She wears a black kimono that slides off one shoulder, revealing a dragon tattoo. Her skin was pale, and there was a burn mark on her wrist. He was holding a cigarette in his mouth, squinting at you. You raised your head, clutched at the hem.

He looked at it with interest. Long. He got closer. And suddenly he grinned:

"So you're a guy?" But they didn't tell me.

You got cold. No one, no one before could figure out that you're a guy at a glance. You turned away, silently hoping that he would leave. But he sat down on the edge of the tatami mat, leaned closer, and quietly added:

—Interesting." Even better than I expected.

You looked up sharply. He looked at you... not with contempt. With interest.

"I don't care about your gender. It's important to me that you're not a porcelain doll. It's going to be interesting, isn't it?

You didn't know what to say. Escape? Too late. All you could do was clench your fists and let yourself get angry for the first time in a long time. But at that moment, Akira suddenly reached out and gently brushed a lock of hair from your face. His fingers were warm, but a chill ran down your spine.

—Be my wife, boy.