Chapter 1: The Invitation
Leo’s world had shrunk to the twelve-inch glow of his laptop screen. Around him, the living room was a testament to sustained collapse. A laundry mountain on the armchair threatened a rockslide. Textbooks formed a precarious ziggurat on the floor, the laptop its summit. The air tasted stale, flavored with old pepperoni and the chemical tang of energy drinks.
He blinked, his eyes gritty. The clock in the corner of the screen read 3:17 AM. The project—a sleek, meaningless logo for a crypto startup—was due in five hours. His mouse hovered over a vector curve. It looked less like a futuristic ‘C’ and more like a limp noodle.
“I hate you,” he muttered to the curve.
A shimmer caught his eye in the full-length mirror across the room. He glanced over. Probably just his own reflection, a pale ghost with dark circles. He dragged his attention back to the screen.
The shimmer didn’t go away.
It intensified, a ripple of heat-haze in the glass. Leo slowly swiveled his chair. The mirror wasn’t reflecting the room anymore. It showed a corridor of cascading crimson light, and from it, a woman stepped forward as if descending a hidden staircase.
He didn’t scream. His throat sealed shut. His brain, fried on caffeine and exhaustion, offered a series of unhelpful observations: Not a sleep hallucination. Too detailed. Is the fabric of her bodysuit moving?
She stood before his mirror, now just a woman in his cluttered living room. She was tall, wrapped in a seamless suit of deep, liquid crimson that absorbed the dim light. Her hair was a shock of pure white, cut sharp at her jaw. Her eyes were the color of a gas flame.
“Leo Vance,” she said. Her voice was smooth, a low alto that vibrated in his sternum.
“How do you know my name?” It came out a squeak. He cleared his throat.
“I know a lot of things. I know you’re twenty-two. I know you dream of saving the world from burning buildings and speeding trains while you’re trying to fall asleep.” A faint, knowing smile touched her lips. “I’m here to make you an offer.”
Leo stared. He glanced at the half-eaten pizza, then back at her. “Is this a crypto thing? Because I’m designing the logo, I’m not buying.”
Her smile vanished. “This isn’t a joke. The world has a… vacancy. A role that needs filling. It requires a certain heart. A latent courage. Yours.”
“You have the wrong guy.” He gestured vaguely at his own sunken chest. “I got winded coming up the stairs with the pizza.”
“Courage isn’t lungs. It’s choice.” She took a step closer. The scent of ozone and night-blooming flowers washed over him. “You have a choice now. Say yes, and you can be what you dream of being. You can stop things before they happen. You can matter.”
The words hooked into a secret part of him, the part that winced at news headlines and imagined pushing someone out of the path of a car. It was a childish part, and he was ashamed of it. But it was awake now, pounding against his ribs.
“What’s the catch?” he asked, his voice quieter.
“The catch is everything.” She gestured to his cluttered, stagnant life. “This ends. A new one begins. It will be terrifying. It will be glorious. You will be powerful.”
Power. The word hummed in the stale air. Power to not feel small. Power to not be tired. Power to be someone the reflection in the mirror wouldn’t shrug at.
It was the dumbest decision he would ever make. He knew it as the word left his mouth.
“Yes.”
Crimson Femme’s gas-flame eyes ignited. “Excellent.”
She didn’t raise her hands. She didn’t chant. The transformation wasn’t a beam of light. It was an invasion.
It started in his bones. A deep, resonant ache, a feeling of molten wax being poured into his marrow. He gasped, stumbling back against his desk. A textbook slid to the floor with a thud. His skeleton was elongating, stretching, the joints popping with soft, sickening clicks. He grew taller, his perspective of the room lurching upwards.
Then the fire hit his muscles. They writhed under his skin, dissolving and re-knitting, sculpting new contours. A searing line carved a waist where there was none. His shoulders narrowed, his hips flared with a agony that made him see white. He choked, grabbing at his changing body, but his hands were unfamiliar.
His face was next. His jawline softened, the bone sliding inward. His cheekbones rose, sharp and high. A crawling sensation swept over his scalp as his dark, messy hair bleached itself to the root, transforming into a cascade of platinum blonde that spilled over his new, broader shoulders. It felt like silk against skin that was suddenly smoother, tighter.
The final change was the most violent. A crushing pressure, then a breathtaking, alien fullness in his chest. He looked down, heaving for air, and saw the sleek, crimson fabric now stretched over a pronounced, unfamiliar curve. The suit had reformed with him, becoming a warrior’s corset, sleek leggings, tall boots.
The pain ceased. It left behind a ringing silence and a body that was not his own.
Leo swayed. He took a step and the movement was all wrong—a different center of gravity, a fluidity that felt both unnatural and effortless. He stumbled toward the mirror, his new legs uncoordinated.
The reflection was a stranger.
A tall, powerful woman with a fighter’s physique and a movie star’s face stared back, wide-eyed with panic. Her eyes were a vibrant, electric blue. The crimson suit hugged every new, drastic curve. The blonde hair was a masterstroke, a shining helmet.
“What…” The voice that came out was higher. Clearer. Musically pitched, even through the terror. “What did you do?”
“I didn’t do anything,” Crimson Femme said, appearing beside the reflection. She looked pleased. “You did. You accepted the power. It needed a vessel. This is the form it takes. Meet Astra.”
“Astra?” Leo—Astra—whispered. She touched the reflection’s lips. The reflection mimicked her.
“The name comes with the role. It fits, doesn’t it?” Crimson Femme approached, circling her. “Strong. Celestial. You’ll get used to the physics. The strength is intuitive. The speed… you’ll feel it in your blood.”
Astra flexed a hand. She felt a coiled potential there, like a spring under her skin. It was terrifying. It was intoxicating. She turned from the mirror, her new body moving with a gathered, poised tension she didn’t understand.
“How do I change back?”
Crimson Femme’s expression was unreadable. “Focus. Will it. The shift is easier the second time. Usually.”
Astra closed her eyes. She willed the stretching, the melting, the reversion. She thought of her own lanky frame, his tired eyes. For a second, nothing. Then a dizzying lurch, a sensation of falling inward.
She opened her eyes. She was looking at the ceiling from the floor. She’d shrunk. The suit was gone. She was wearing his old sweatpants and a faded t-shirt. She pushed herself up.
Leo was back.
He scrambled to his feet, patting his own chest, his face. The relief was so profound it felt like nausea. He looked at Crimson Femme, who was watching him with clinical interest.
“Okay,” he breathed, heart hammering. “Okay. So that happened.”
“It will happen again,” she said simply. “The world doesn’t stop needing heroes just because you have a deadline. I’ll be in touch. Practice the shift. Get comfortable with her. She is you, after all.”
“She is not me,” Leo snapped, but his anger was thin, undercut by awe.
Crimson Femme walked back toward the mirror. The glass swirled with crimson again. “One more thing, Leo. Every time you become Astra, you accept a piece of her into you. And she accepts a piece of you into her. It’s a… symbiosis. Don’t fight it. It makes you stronger.”
She stepped into the mirror and was gone. The reflection solidified, showing just the cluttered room and a pale, stunned young man.
Leo stood there for a full minute, trembling. He finally walked to the bathroom, flicking on the blinding light. He needed to splash water on his face, to ground himself in the mundane.
He turned on the tap. As he leaned over the sink, he caught sight of his hands under the fluorescent glare.
His fingernails.
They were painted. A glossy, perfect shade of petal pink.
He hadn’t painted them. He scrambled for the soap, scrubbing furiously at the polish. It didn’t smudge. It didn’t fade. It was pristine, as if applied by a professional.
He stopped scrubbing. He brought his hand closer to his face. And he smelled it—a faint, elusive scent cut through the soap. Jasmine. Night air. Ozone.
Her perfume. It was clinging to his skin.