Chapter 1: The Pill and a Promise
The blue pill was tiny. It looked harmless, like something you’d take for a headache. John rolled it between his thumb and forefinger, the fluorescent light from his desk lamp catching its smooth surface. His bedroom was a museum of his last three years of life—cardboard boxes spilling old graphic novels, a pile of laundry that might have been alive, the familiar sting of cheap body spray trying and failing to mask the smell of stale takeout.
Danny’s voice crackled from the phone on speaker, tinny and urgent. “It’s just for a couple of hours, tops. You take the pill, you snap a few pics, you send them to me. Sarah sees them, she gets jealous, she comes running back. It’s psychology, man. It’s genius.”
“It’s insane,” John muttered, but his eyes stayed fixed on the pill. The logic was flimsy, a house of cards built on Danny’s desperation. But Danny was his best friend. And Danny was in pain. The guilt was a familiar, heavy knot in his stomach.
“It’s a gesture,” Danny pressed. “A huge, unbelievable gesture that proves I’d do anything to get her back. But I can’t be the one in the photo, see? It has to be someone else. It has to be you.”
“Why does the someone else have to turn into a girl?”
“Because the picture needs to be hot, John! It needs to be confusing. It needs to make her stop and think, ‘Who is that? Why is Danny with her?’ A dude in a wig is a prank. This?” Danny’s voice dropped, conspiratorial. “This is art. This is believable. Come on, man. For me?”
John let out a long breath, his gaze drifting to the half-empty bottle of cheap whiskey on the nightstand, next to the crumpled printouts of Danny’s texts with Sarah. The pleas. The apologies. The silence from her end. He popped the cap off a bottle of warm cider, the sweet, yeasty smell hitting his nose.
“A few hours,” he said, more to himself than to Danny.
“That’s all. Swear on my life.”
John tipped his head back, dropped the pill onto his tongue, and washed it down with a gulp of cider. It tasted like nothing. Like regret in advance.
For a minute, nothing happened. He sat on the edge of his bed, the springs groaning, and stared at his hands. Same rough knuckles, same chewed nails.
Then a warmth started in the pit of his stomach, a slow, deep bloom that wasn’t unpleasant. It spread outwards, a tingling wave moving down his legs, up his chest, into the very tips of his fingers. His skin prickled, a full-body flush. He shrugged off his hoodie, suddenly too warm.
“You feel it?” Danny’s voice was eager.
“I feel something. Weird.” His own voice sounded the same. He stood up, his knees feeling unsteady. A dizzy wave hit him, and he put a hand on the wall to steady himself. The wall seemed farther away. The ceiling seemed higher.
He looked down. His Metallica t-shirt was beginning to hang differently, the fabric pooling and sagging where it had once been taut against his chest. He watched, detached, as the fabric slowly, inexorably smoothed out, then began to tent again, but softly, in a completely different way. A low, unnerving ache settled in his bones, a deep restructuring that felt less like pain and more like a profound, internal rustling.
His hips gave a sharp, minute twang, a sensation of ligaments shifting. He stumbled toward the full-length mirror leaning against a stack of boxes, his gait already altering, a new, unfamiliar balance taking hold.
The person in the mirror was a stranger, painted in the gloom of his room.
The sharp, angular lines of his face were softening, melting into a delicate heart shape. His jawline was less pronounced, his cheeks rounder. His dirty blonde hair was darkening, deepening to a rich brunette, and it was curling, sprouting in tight, playful ringlets that just brushed his now-slender neck. He watched, heart hammering against a ribcage that felt smaller, as his body shed its lanky, wiry frame. He was shrinking, compacting, his shoulders narrowing, his waist dipping in a sudden, dramatic curve he’d only ever seen on screens.
He brought a hand—a smaller, smoother hand with slender fingers—to his face. The mischievous grin he was known for was gone. In its place was a full, softly bowed mouth, parted now in silent shock. His eyes, still his same shade of blue, looked bigger, framed by long lashes.
“John? You good, man?” Danny’s call was distant, an echo from another life.
He tried to speak. “Danny…” The voice that came out was higher. Softer. Lighter. It wavered with a breathy, anxious quality that was entirely foreign. It was the voice of a girl. A cute, nerdy girl who was currently staring in abject horror at the devastatingly pretty bombshell in the mirror.
She—he—was five feet tall. A tiny, curvy silhouette swallowed by the baggy t-shirt, which now hung like a dress past her thighs.
“It worked,” the voice—Jessi’s voice, some part of his mind supplied—whispered.
The phone buzzed on the bed. A new message from Danny. So? Send a pic. Let’s see the art.
Jessi’s hands trembled. She wrapped her arms around herself, a protective, futile gesture. The body she held was soft, warm, utterly alien. The consciousness inside it was screaming. This was a costume made of flesh, and he was trapped in it. The man was still in there, panicking, scrambling for purchase in this new, reduced form.
She took a shallow, rattling breath. The air smelled of her own fear, and the lingering metallic hint of the pill. She walked back to the bed, movements instinctively careful, graceful in a way John’s never were. She picked up the phone.
“I don’t know about this, Danny,” she said, and the sound of that pleading, feminine voice made her want to vomit.
“Just one picture. For Sarah. Remember?” Danny’s tone had shifted. It was smoother now. Persuasive. “You’re already there, Jessi. You may as well.”
The use of the name was a calculated slap. It made it real. John was gone. For now, he was Jessi.
“I don’t have any… girl clothes,” she mumbled, looking around the chaotic room.
“The t-shirt is perfect. It’s casual. It’s authentic. Just… pull it to the side a little. Give a look. You know.”
She didn’t know. But the weight of the promise, the twisted debt of friendship, pressed down on her. She felt small, in every way. She angled the phone, turning her head, trying to mimic something she’d seen in ads. The flash went off, blinding her. She sent the picture without looking at it.
The reply was instant. HOLY SHIT.
Her stomach churned.
You look incredible. Wait, is that the whiskey behind you?
Before she could reply, another message. Pour a glass. Do a pic with the glass. Make it look like you’re having a fun night in. It’ll sell it.
The manipulation was a cold knot in her gut. But the logic, the terrible, step-by-step logic, was being followed. She had taken the pill. She had become the girl. What was one more picture? What was a glass of whiskey? It was for Danny. For Sarah. To fix things.
She shuffled to the nightstand, the wooden floor cool under her bare feet. She poured two fingers of amber liquid into a dirty glass. Her hand, so small, struggled to wrap around it. She took a shaky picture, her new, large eyes looking over the rim of the glass.
Perfect. Now take a sip. For real. It’ll help you relax. You sound tense.
She was. Every muscle in this new body was wire-tight. She brought the glass to her lips—her new, soft lips—and drank. The whiskey burned a familiar path down her throat, a slice of normalcy in the surreal. The warmth spread, blurring the sharp edges of her panic.
The phone rang. Video call.
She answered. Danny’s face filled the screen, his eyes wide, a slow grin spreading. “Wow,” he breathed. “Just… wow. You’re a miracle worker, Jessi.”
“It’s still me,” she said, the whiskey already making her tongue feel looser, the words slightly slurred.
“I know, I know. Of course it is.” He leaned closer to his camera. “Look, you’ve done the hard part. The pill is done. The change is done. We’re almost there. But the picture… it needs a little more. It needs to look like we’re actually… hanging out. Having a deep night. You get me?”
Jessi took another sip. The warmth was stronger now, a thick blanket smothering John’s protests. “What do you mean?”
“Just… get a little closer to the camera. Talk to me. Like I’m there. Let’s practice.”
She leaned in. The screen showed her face, flushed, her curls a dark frame. She looked young. She looked vulnerable. She saw Danny’s expression shift, saw the calculation in his eyes being replaced by something else, something hungrier and more immediate.
“There you go,” he said, his voice dropping to a murmur. “That’s better. Now, say something.”
“What should I say?” Jessi asked, and the whispery confusion in her own voice sickened her.
“Anything. Just let me hear you.”
She was silent, trapped in the glow of the screen, the warmth of the whiskey, and the terrifying, undeniable reality of the reflection in the mirror behind her—a beautiful girl, alone, and becoming increasingly, dangerously pliable.