Sam always figured if the universe had a twisted sense of humor—and let's be honest, it definitely did—he'd be the punchline.

  A high-pitched ba-dum-tss somewhere out in the cosmic void, right after another minor life catastrophe, like forgetting your headphones before a cross-country flight or realizing your milk expired three days ago halfway through a bowl of cereal.

  He wiped a hand across his face, pushing up his gsses and sighing so deep it threatened to suck the spirit right out of his chest. His fingers hovered over the "upload" button on his YouTube dashboard. Another voiceless video. Just ambient sounds, clean gamepy, no cam, no commentary. It had worked so far—somehow.

  "Just press the button, Sam," he muttered to the empty apartment.

  The click echoed louder than it should have in the tiny one-bedroom he'd carved out for himself here in Nevada. Beige walls. Worn carpet. The constant hum of the AC barely covering the creaks of an aging building that probably hated its life as much as he hated company.

  Upload Successful.1 New Comment.

  Already? He blinked and refreshed.

  "Bro, your aim's cracked. You sure you're not an AI?"

  A chuckle slipped out—short, rough, but real. He leaned back in his battered gaming chair, letting the tension drain from his shoulders. Maybe today wouldn’t suck as hard.

  The phone buzzed on his desk. A call.Mom and Dad.Again.

  He stared at the screen until it went dark. He wasn't ready for that particur boss fight tonight.

  Sam hadn't really fit anywhere, ever. Too stubborn for some crowds, too sensitive for others. Always walking that frayed tightrope of being "too much" and "not enough" at the same time. He loved his online friends—God, he loved them—but sometimes even they felt oceans away. Canada. Texas. Pces he could barely afford to dream about visiting.

  But alone was better than muted.Alone was better than being wrong for existing.

  He stood up, stretching until his back popped, then wandered toward the kitchen for something edible. Dinner was shaping up to be a gourmet feast of microwaved ramen with a side of existential dread.

  He cracked open the pantry—and froze.

  There was something tucked behind the stack of instant noodles.

  An envelope.Bck. No postage. No return address.

  "What the hell...?" His voice rasped against the stillness.

  It hadn't been there yesterday. He would have noticed. He was many things, but oblivious wasn't one of them. His heart started thumping harder, not in fear, but in that weird liminal space between this is fine and this is how horror movies start.

  Curiosity won, as it usually did.

  He tore the envelope open.

  Inside was a single card, printed with ornate, almost baroque lettering:

  "What you have lost, may now be found.What you have feared, may now be freed.Close your eyes. Accept your truth."

  No signature. No instructions. No... anything.

  Sam snorted. "Okay, creepy pantry goblin. Sure. Lemme just... 'accept my truth.' No big deal."

  Still, a nervous little tickle ran up his spine. Like the way the sky feels before a thunderstorm—not violent yet, just electric, like the whole world was holding its breath.

  On impulse, maybe because he was an idiot, maybe because he was just tired of not knowing, Sam closed his eyes.

  He expected silence. Maybe the fridge buzzing. Maybe a neighbor’s footsteps upstairs.

  Instead—A low vibration rolled through the apartment, deep and bone-shaking. His body jolted, muscles tensing. It was like standing too close to a subwoofer, except the music was inside him.

  Heat flushed through his skin, starting at the tips of his fingers and racing inward. He gasped, stumbling back into the counter. His heart jackhammered in his chest. His palms burned.

  He cracked an eye open.

  His hand. His goddamn hand was glowing. A soft, pulsing shimmer, like moonlight on water.

  "What the fuck, what the fuck, what the fuck—"

  The glow crept up his arms, threading through the blue veins like fire in river channels. His hoodie tightened at the shoulders, seams groaning. He felt a sick, swooping lurch in his gut—not pain, exactly, but change, primal and unstoppable.

  His center of gravity shifted. His hips stretched outward with a slow, relentless pressure that almost buckled his knees. His stomach fttened, tightening into something toned and subtle like he’d spent years in a gym he’d never visited. His jeans squeezed tighter at the thighs and hips, making him grunt in startled discomfort.

  Sam panted, bracing himself against the counter as his chest grew warm—too warm—and then the heat pooled and blossomed under his shirt.

  He grabbed at his hoodie, yanking it off and throwing it aside in a blind panic. His t-shirt clung to new curves, unfamiliar and impossible. Two firm, weighty swells strained the fabric—he could feel the shift in bance, the alien pull at his spine.

  Breasts.He had breasts now.

  His face prickled and itched. He could almost feel the way the shape of it softened—the jaw smoothing, the nose trimming down by a fraction, the cheeks rounding just enough to make his face look... prettier.

  Not different.Not unrecognizable.Still him.But better.

  Two minutes.The whole thing sted two fucking minutes.

  Then the glow faded, leaving him trembling in the kitchen, his heart in his throat, staring down at a body that was still his... and not.

  The world buzzed around him. The walls tilted. His mouth opened and closed soundlessly like a fish yanked out of water.

  "Wh—"He croaked once, coughed, then tried again, his voice cracking like a teenager’s first concert.

  "What... the fuck... just happened to me?"

  He stumbled toward the bathroom, bare feet spping the worn linoleum. Every step felt different, the swing of his hips unpracticed, throwing his bance just slightly off in ways that sent little shocks of embarrassment through him.

  He flicked the light on. Blinked.

  The mirror stared back.Not a stranger.Not exactly.

  It was Sam.It was still Sam.

  But the eyes seemed brighter, the skin softer, the chest... very much not ft.

  He touched the gss, as if expecting the reflection to move independently.

  It didn’t. It was him. Her. Them.

  A shiver rattled up his—her—spine.

  She leaned closer, studying the way her new body breathed, shifted, existed. Every detail felt like something remembered from a dream, brought kicking and screaming into reality.

  No blood. No surgery scars. No trauma.

  Just...Her.As if she had always been meant to look like this.

  Sam exhaled, long and shaky. Her fingers traced her face, the arch of her cheek, the gentle slope of her jaw.

  Somewhere deep inside the tangled forest of confusion and panic, a small ember of something fierce and free started to glow.

  Sam wasn't sure what came next.

  But she was damn sure she wasn't going back.