The morning had been quiet. The kind of soft hush that came after rain — concrete still dark, air still heavy, customers trickling in with umbrellas and quiet voices. Noah was organizing a new shipment of chest binders when the bell above the door jingled, sharp and abrupt.
He looked up, and see a man.
The man who entered didn't fit the usual profile. Broad. Clean-cut. Military buzz cut. Khaki cargo pants. A dark green jacket emblazoned with an unmistakable insignia: Brazilian Army.
He scanned the store with the cold disapproval of someone looking at graffiti on a monument.
James, now behind the counter, straightened his shoulders. Noah could feel the shift in his posture — alert, grounded, but cautious.
“Can I help you?” James asked, polite, but firm.
The man stepped forward. "Help? Yeah. You can help by explaining what kind of sick joke this place is."
Noah felt his stomach coil. He stepped closer.
“This is a private business,” he said calmly. “If you're not here to shop—”
The man cut him off.
“Binder Bros?” he said, sneering at the name. "This where you sell those little corsets to turn boys into girls? Or the other way around?" He looked James up and down. "Is that what you are? Some science experiment?"
James didn’t flinch — but he didn’t speak either.
Noah placed a hand on the counter, steadying himself. “We provide gender-affirming clothing and support to people who need it. And no one in here owes you a damn explanation.”
But the man turned to James again, ignoring Noah.
"People like you, man... you're the reason kids are confused. Back in the Army, we'd have kicked your ass just for pretending."
James’s hands clenched into fists on the counter. His voice, when it came, was slow and even — as if pulling from a deeper well.
“I’m not intending,” he said. "And I'm not confused. I fought for every part of who I am."
The man squinted. "You fought? You? Please."
James stepped out from behind the counter now, calm but charged. "Yeah. Fought through years of feeling broken. Fought to be seen. Fought to survive when people like you said I didn't deserve to. That kind of fight is different from wearing a uniform."
The air in the store was a pressure chamber now — every word tightening it.
The man’s face darkened, taking a step forward.
And that’s when Noah, hand discreetly under the counter, clicked the Chronivac portable emitter — already preloaded with a preset marked: