Your uniform requires special treatment.

The routine had become a cyclical nightmare. Donning the tight uniform and the obscene underwear every morning was an act of self-denial that stole a piece of her soul. Magi did it with glazed eyes, automatically, trying to disconnect her mind from the body wearing those garments.

At the end of another exhausting day, Officer Costa announced a new "cohesion and service measure."

"Cadet Rojas," she called, singling her out with her gaze. "Your uniform requires special maintenance. Due to its... particular composition. Cadet Novoa will be in charge of washing it this week. It's part of his instruction."

Novoa was a young recruit with an easy smile and an ambitious look, always trying to curry favor with superiors and win the acceptance of the veterans. Hearing the order, he shot a quick, knowing glance at his partner, who responded with an almost imperceptible wink.

Magi felt a new chill. Handing over her uniform, that grotesque extension of her humiliation, to one of them was like handing over the keys to her own **** chamber. But refusal was impossible.

"Yes, Officer," she murmured, avoiding all eye contact.

At the end of the day, with clumsy movements, she locked herself in a bathroom and changed with relief and shame, returning to her civilian clothes. She folded the tight uniform and the lace set with trembling fingers and handed them to Novoa in the changing room. The cadet took them with a mocking smile.

"Don't worry, bookworm. I'll return your gear spotless. Sparkling."

The night was restless. Magi sensed the trap, the next act in this performance designed to break her.

The next morning, she headed to the locker with a sinking heart. Novoa was already there, standing next to her, with an expression of feigned concern that did not hide his satisfaction. Officer Costa watched from a few meters away, arms crossed, her gaze expressionless.

"Cadet Rojas, a small problem," Novoa said, opening her locker dramatically.

Inside, hanging from the hook, was her uniform. Or what was left of it.

The shirt, once a tight dark blue, was faded in irregular patches, with whitish bleach stains forming a grotesque pattern. The pants were shrunk, even smaller than they already were, with the seams twisted and irreversibly wrinkled. They looked like a sad, vulgar clown's clothes. The black lace set, hung with tiny clothespins, was stiff, bleached, and starched, unrecognizable and destroyed.

"There was a mistake with the bleach," Novoa explained, shrugging with a smile that betrayed his lie. "A shame."

Magi felt the ground open beneath her. This was new. This was worse. It was no longer just about wearing something humiliating; it was about having nothing to wear.

Officer Costa approached slowly. She examined the remnants of the ruined uniform with a critical gaze.

"A disaster," she declared coldly. "Total negligence, Cadet Novoa. It will have consequences." Novoa nodded, feigning contrition, but his smile didn't entirely fade. Then, Costa turned to Magi. "As for you, Cadet Rojas. You have formation in ten minutes. The regulation is clear: you can only enter the training facilities in the proper uniform and condition."

She paused deliberately, letting the silence fill with horror.

"We have no stock of your... special size. And ordering a new one would take days." Her eyes, cold as steel, locked onto Magi's. "But the institution must adapt. We have a temporary solution."

Costa motioned to Novoa, who, with a wide grin, pulled another garment from a brown paper bag and hung it on the hook, next to the bleached rags.

It was a uniform, but not just any uniform. It was the uniform of the academy's Public Relations and Protocol Unit. A women's jacket and skirt suit. The jacket was a pale, almost white pink, absurdly tight and short. The shirt that should go underneath was made of white synthetic silk, so thin that it was practically transparent. And the skirt... the skirt was dark blue, but it was so short and tight that it was barely wider than a ribbon. There were no opaque stockings to go with it, only ridiculous short socks.

"As you can see, it is a regulation uniform," Costa said in a neutral voice. "From another division, but regulation nonetheless. It's this... or nothing. Or, of course, you can absent yourself from the formation. Which would constitute a serious offense, given the nature of your probation period."

The choice was clear, and it was **** at all. Being absent meant risking her position, her salary, her only lifeline. Appearing in that...

Magi looked at the pink uniform. It looked like the disguise of a low-cost airline stewardess. It was humiliatingly feminine, sexualized, and completely opposite to the severe, functional image of a cadet.

"Ten minutes, cadet," Costa sentenced. "I do not tolerate delays." Novoa couldn't stifle a laugh before walking away.

Magi locked herself in a cubicle, holding the pink uniform. Tears welled up in her eyes, but she held them back. There was no time to cry. She dressed with numb fingers. The skirt rode up to mid-thigh, so tight it hampered her movement. The transparent shirt clearly showed the simple sports bra she wore underneath, another element that now felt indecent. The pink jacket squeezed her shoulders and was too short, exposing her waist with every movement.

Looking in the mirror, she saw a stranger. A vulgar, sexualized parody of a woman, an object of public mockery. There was no trace of the cadet she aspired to be. Just a doll dressed for public scorn.

She left the changing room. The silence her appearance generated was even more deafening than laughter. The gazes of her peers, especially the men, were like hands running over her body. Officer Costa evaluated her from head to toe.

"Adequate," she said, without a hint of irony, as if dressing her for a fair. "At least the colors are light. You won't stain it as much."

Magi walked to her spot, feeling the cold air lick her bare legs, how every gaze was a pinprick on her skin. The humiliation was no longer just about clumsiness or poverty. Now it was about her gender, her body, turned into a deliberate spectacle approved by authority. It was the executioner's praise, dressed in pink.