Chapter 2: Transfer
Sunlight. That was the first shock. Not the flickering, jaundiced glow of his single lamp, but actual, warm, clean sunlight streaming through large windows. It pooled on a beige leather couch, warming Kenji’s legs. Legs that felt… wrong.
He blinked, his vision swimming. The air didn’t reek of stale smoke and despair. Instead, a faint, sweet trace of incense lingered, subtle and alien. The room wasn't cramped; it was spacious, lived-in, cluttered but orderly. A large, dark TV screen dominated one wall, silent and blank. Nothing like the frantic, grainy rectangle of his own damnation.
Panic, cold and sharp, sliced through the grogginess. The truck. The blinding lights. The crushing pain. He should be… paste. Or in agony. Not here. Not feeling… soft?
He looked down.
Dainty hands rested in his lap. Pale skin, neatly filed nails painted a soft pink. A thin gold band encircled the ring finger of the left hand. His left hand. He flexed the fingers. They moved. They were his fingers. But they weren't. They were too small, too delicate. Alien.
His gaze travelled lower. A green soft fabric, covered his lap. He wore it. He wore a skirt. The realization hit like a physical blow. With trembling fingers – her fingers? – he grabbed a handful of the material near his thigh and pulled it up, just an inch or two.
Beneath the hem, skin. Smooth, hairless skin. The leg beneath was long, slender, disappearing into a pair of pink slippers. He stared, uncomprehending. Where were his hairy calves? His knobbly knees? He shifted slightly on the couch, the leather creaking softly. The movement sent a cascade of sensation through his lower body. A profound absence.
No familiar weight. No bulge. Just… flatness. A strange, soft pressure where his cock should have been. A tightness lower down, unfamiliar and unsettling. He froze, breath catching in a throat that felt strangely constricted, higher-pitched. Untrimmed curls. The memory from the TV screen flashed, grotesque and immediate, superimposed over this terrifying void between his legs. His stomach lurched.
What the hell? The thought screamed silently in his head, a voice that sounded wrong, too high, trapped inside this… shell. He tried to swallow, but his throat felt tight, dry. Black shoulder-length hair fell forward, tickling his cheek. His cheek. He lifted a hand – her hand – and touched it. Soft. Real.