Chapter 2: The Invitation
The address had taken him six days to find and one more to convince himself to use. A converted warehouse in the industrial district, its loading bays painted over in matte white, its windows dark with the kind of film that kept out both light and prying eyes. The building had no name on its façade, no sign, nothing but a small brass plate near the door that read LUMINA GALLERY in letters so elegant they looked embossed.
Morph stood on the cracked pavement across the street and watched it. Six in the evening. The last of the sun caught the high windows and turned them to sheets of amber. He had been standing there for eleven minutes, and in that time the building had not breathed once. No traffic in or out. No curtain twitch. No tell.
It was a trap. He knew it was a trap. He had walked into worse with less reason, and he had walked out the other side with the debris of his pride still smoking. But this time he did not have the clean certainty of a man doing his job. He had something else, a low hum of curiosity that had been building in his chest since the auction house, a restlessness that would not settle no matter how many walls he punched in the training room or how many criminals he left folded on rooftops.
He was here to confront a villain. He was also here for another reason, one he refused to name aloud, and the refusal made the reason louder.
He crossed the street.
The door opened before he touched it. A soft mechanical sigh, a hydraulic piston somewhere in the frame. No one stood behind it. Just a corridor of white light, clean and sterile as a surgeon's floor, running the length of the building toward a second door at the far end.
He stepped inside. The door closed behind him, and the latch settled with a sound like a closing eye.
He walked the corridor slowly, testing the air. It smelled like paint and faintly like something floral, an orchid cut and left to open in a warm room. His boots made no sound on the polished concrete. He passed two closed doors, both unmarked, both locked. At the end, the second door stood ajar, a wedge of golden light spilling through the gap.
He pushed it open.
The space opened out like a held breath released. A warehouse, yes, but transformed, white walls rising three stories to a vaulted ceiling laced with steel beams. The light came from hundreds of small fixtures set into the walls, each one a pinprick of warm gold, so the whole room glowed from within like a lantern. On the floor, in the center, a long table of pale wood held a single vase of white flowers. Bookshelves lined one wall, crowded and unsorted. A ladder leaned against them, abandoned mid-climb.
It was not a villain's lair. It was a home the way a showroom is a home, all the surfaces arranged for an audience that had not arrived yet.
She stood beside the table, one hand resting on the back of a chair. Dressed in a gown of deep green that pooled at her feet like river water, her hair loose over her shoulders, she looked like something from a painting that had been left too long in the light. She was holding a small brass pocket watch, and as he watched, she let it swing gently from its chain, a glint of gold catching the pinpoints of warm illumination.
"Morph," she said. "You found me."
"I didn't want to."
"But you did." She smiled, unhurried. "I knew you would. I've been expecting you since Tuesday. You circled the block three times before you parked. I liked that. It showed thought."
He kept his distance, ten feet of white floor between them. The room felt bigger than it was, the ceiling pressing down with its weight of empty space.
"What do you want?" he said.
"To talk. To show you something. To offer you a drink." She gestured at the table, and he saw now that a single glass stood there, filled with a shimmering pink liquid that caught the light and threw it back in soft currents, like silk moving underwater. "Sit. I don't bite. Not unless you ask."
"I'm not sitting."
"You're also not leaving." She said it without cruelty, a simple observation of the body he was standing in. "So let's not pretend we're in a hurry. You're here because something in you wants to know what I meant. That's not weakness. It's the first honest thing you've let yourself feel in years."
His jaw tightened. He crossed the room, not because she asked, but because he needed to prove he could, and stopped at the table's edge. The drink sat there, glowing faintly, pink as a sunset squeezed into a glass.
"What is that?" he said.
"Honey and strawberries." She turned the watch in her fingers, the crescent scratch on its face catching the light. "A gift. A courtesy. You've been holding yourself so tightly for so long. I thought we could begin with something gentle."
"Begin what?"
"Whatever comes next." She set the watch down on the table with a quiet click and folded her arms. "You're a shapeshifter, Morph. Do you know what that means to me? It means you've never had to accept a single thing about yourself. Every insecurity, you can reshape it. Every flaw, you can smooth it away. You've built a body that never has to suffer, and that's exactly why you're suffering so much."
He did not move. The pink liquid shimmered in its glass, and he could smell it now, faint and sweet, strawberries and something deeper, a honey note that sat at the back of the throat like a memory.
"I don't need you to explain me to myself," he said.
"No. You've done a very thorough job of that on your own." She stepped toward him, and he let her, a part of him watching from a great distance as his body failed to step back. "You think I'm trying to break you. I'm not. I'm trying to give you a holiday. One night where you don't have to decide who you're going to be. That's all." Her hand came up, and he felt her fingertip touch the hollow of his throat, light and warm. "I can't reshape you. Only you can do that. I can only show you what it feels like to be reshaped."
"By you."
"By someone who wants what's best for you." She smiled, and the smile had a sweetness to it that made his stomach twist. "Which is more than you've been doing for yourself."
He looked at the drink. He looked at her. He thought of the auction house, of her hand on his cheek, of the warmth that had spread through his limbs like a tide. He thought of the week of restless nights, the empty training room, the feeling he kept failing to name.
His hand reached out. He did not tell it to.
He picked up the glass.
"Are you sure about this?" she asked, and there was a note in her voice he had not heard before, something quiet and almost kind. "Once you drink, you'll be more suggestible. The choice will feel easier. I won't force you to do anything, but I won't be able to draw a line between what you want and what I want, either. That's the way this works. You have to be willing to blur."
"I'm not willing."
"You lifted the glass," she said simply.
He held it a moment, the cool glass against his palm, the pink liquid swaying. He could set it down. He could walk out the door. The corridor was still open, the lock still turned. Nothing was holding him.
His body did not want that. His body wanted to know what she meant. His body had been waiting for this since the auction house, since the warmth, since the moment he realized that his hand had obeyed her voice and that some deep place in him had been disappointed when it obeyed his own.
He drank.
The liquid slid over his tongue like warm honey, impossibly sweet, the taste of strawberries bursting against the roof of his mouth. It was not a swallow so much as a dissolving, the heat spreading down his throat and into his chest and then out through his limbs like a blush blooming under skin. The room seemed to soften at the edges, the white walls taking on a rose tint, the golden light growing lush and heavy.
He blinked. The glass was empty in his hand, and he did not remember setting it down, but there it was, on the table, no longer shimmering.
"How do you feel?" she said.
He opened his mouth to answer, and the words came slowly, like they were having to walk across a long distance to reach his lips. "Warm."
"Good." She took the glass and set it aside, and her hand found his, folding his fingers into hers. Her palm was dry and cool against his flushed skin. "That's the beginning. Do you want to sit down now?"
He sat. He did not think about it. He simply moved, sank into the chair at the table, the cushioned seat catching him with a sigh. The room tilted gently, then straightened. He felt a smile on his face and did not know where it had come from.
"Better?" she asked.
"Yes." The word came easily. It felt good to say. "Why is it so easy?"
"Because it is." She pulled the other chair close and sat across from him, close enough that their knees almost touched. "You've been holding yourself up for so long that you've forgotten how it feels to let someone else bear the weight. That's not weakness, Morph. That's rest."
"Morph," he repeated, and the name felt strange in his mouth, too sharp, too angular. "That's not my name."
"It's the name you chose." She leaned forward, elbows on her knees, her violet eyes catching the light. "But you've chosen so many things, haven't you? Names. Bodies. Habits. You're very good at choosing. I'm offering you a chance to stop."
"Stop what?"
"Stop deciding." She reached out and touched his cheek, the same gesture as before, but softer now, gentler, as if the liquid had cushioned the distance between them. "Let me pick for a while. Just for tonight. I'll choose everything. Your posture, your thoughts, the shape of your body. And all you have to do is let go."
He felt the words run through him like warm water, smoothing every sharp edge, every resistance. There was a part of him that wanted to object, a small bright spark that knew this was wrong, that knew he was walking into a room he might not leave intact. But the spark was drowning in warmth, and the warmth felt so much better than the sharpness.
"What if I don't like what you choose?" he heard himself ask.
"You will." She smiled, and her thumb stroked his cheekbone, slow and soothing. "I know you better than you know yourself. I know what you're carrying, and I know what you want to put down." Her voice dropped, softer, almost a croon. "Let me help you put it down."
He closed his eyes. He was tired. He had not realized how tired until this exact moment, the exhaustion of a decade of vigilance settling into his bones like lead. He had been holding himself so tightly for so long.
"You're not going to hurt me," he said. It came out as a question, and he felt the weight of it between them.
"I'm not going to hurt you," she repeated, and the words wrapped around him like a blanket. "I'm going to take care of you. I'm going to make you feel good. And in the morning, you'll thank me."
He opened his eyes. The room was pink now, or maybe it was the light, or maybe it was the fog that had settled behind his eyes. She was very beautiful, her face close to his, her lips parted, and he found that he wanted to be close to that beauty, wanted to be held by it.
"Okay," he said.
The word sent a tremor through him, a difference in the shape of his mind, something clicking into place.
"Okay," she echoed, and there was satisfaction in her voice now, a quiet purr. "That's right. That's the way. I'm going to take the watch now, and I'm going to hold it so you can look at it. Just a simple thing. Just a swing. And you're going to watch it go, and you're going to feel yourself get soft and warm and ready."
She picked up the pocket watch from the table. The crescent scratch on its face caught the light as it began to swing, a slow arc back and forth, a pendulum counting seconds.
Morph looked at the watch. The warmth in his mind settled into a rhythm, matching the motion of the metal. He heard her voice, low and melodic, speaking words that he felt more than understood, and the words were like hands cupping him, holding him steady.
"Good," she said. "Very good. Now close your eyes."
He closed them. The dark behind his lids was warm, the color of the inside of a held breath.
"I'm going to ask you a question, and I want you to answer honestly, without thinking about it. Can you do that?"
"Yes," he said, and he meant it.
"What do you want?"
The question opened a door in him that he had kept locked for years. He drew a breath, and the words came, raw and small, from a place he had never shown anyone.
"I want to stop being tired," he said. "I want to stop having to decide everything. I want someone to tell me what to do. I want to feel like I belong to something." His voice cracked, and he felt a tear slide down his cheek. "I want to be taken care of."
Her hand cupped his face, so gentle it made his chest ache. "Good. That's exactly what I wanted to hear."
She drew him forward, and he let her. He went. The warmth swallowed him whole, and then there was nothing but the scent of strawberries and the soft, certain press of her lips against his forehead.
Her lips lingered against his skin, soft as a held thought, and then she drew back and the warmth of her mouth gave way to the cool air of the room. He opened his eyes. She was watching him with a tenderness that made his chest feel loose, unlatched.
"That's it," she said. "That's the look. You haven't worn a face this open in years."
He tried to remember the last time he had felt this calm and could not. The edges of his thoughts had gone soft, rounded as sea glass. The room swam gently at the edges of his vision.
"Again, the watch," she said, and she lifted it, the brass catching the golden light, the crescent scratch a small silver arc across its face. It began to swing. "Let your eyes follow it. Don't work at it. Just let them drift with the motion."
He watched. The swing was slow, hypnotic, a metronome set to the rhythm of his slowing pulse. The sound of the chain, a faint whisper of metal, filled the room until it was the only sound.
"That's right." Her voice had gone low and musical, pitched like a lullaby. "With every swing, you sink a little deeper. Every time it passes in front of your eyes, you let go of a little more. You don't need to hold on to anything. There's nothing here that requires you to be alert."
He felt his shoulders drop. He had not noticed they were raised.
"The burden of choice," she said, "is a heavy one. You've been carrying it since you were young, haven't you? Deciding who to be, what to wear, how to move through the world. Always watching yourself, always adjusting. That's exhausting. That's why you're so tired. But you don't have to decide anymore. I'm deciding for you now."
The word "deciding" floated past him and dissolved.
"When I count backward from ten," she said, "you'll fall into a deeper state. Ten. Your mind is getting quiet. Nine. All the noise is fading. Eight. Your body feels warm and heavy. Seven. You can feel the weight of the chair holding you. Six. You don't need to move. Five. You don't need to think. Four. You're safe here. Three. You're cared for here. Two. You can let go of everything."
"One," she said, and the word landed like a feather on still water.
The room dimmed and brightened in a slow pulse. He was aware of her hands on his, cool and steady, and of the smell of strawberries still on his tongue, and of a profound, oceanic calm that had settled into him to the bone.
"Can you hear me?" she asked.
"Yes," he said, and the word came out of him without effort, like a breath.
"Good. You're in a very pleasant state. You don't feel any need to move, or to question what I say. Whatever I tell you feels right to you. Does that feel right?"
"Yes," he said, and it did. It felt like the most natural thing in the world.
"Lovely." She released his hands and stood, moving around the table. Her gown whispered across the floor. She stopped behind him, and he felt her fingers in his hair, combing through the short dark strands. "You have such a serious face. This whole body is so rigid. All that muscle, all that control. It's like a suit of armor you've forgotten how to take off."
She trailed her fingers down the side of his throat, over his shoulder, and he shivered at the tenderness of it.
"Your shapeshifting is a wonderful gift," she said. "But you've used it like a cage. You've built yourself into a fortress of heroism and discipline. Do you know what I see when I look at you? I see someone who wants to be soft. Someone who wants to be pretty. Someone who wants to be admired and touched and wanted."
He felt the words sink into him like stones dropped into deep water, settling somewhere in the silt of his subconscious.
"I'm going to give you permission to feel those things," she said. "Not to fight them. Not to push them away. To let them be what they are. Do you understand?"
"Yes," he breathed.
"In a moment, I'm going to ask you to change. Not completely. Just a small change. And I want you to let me show you what you look like when you let the choice belong to me. Do you trust me?"
He tried to find the part of him that objected. It was far away, muffled, like a voice heard from the bottom of a well. It was very easy to ignore.
"Yes," he said.
"Good. I want you to think about your hair. Right now it's short and dark and practical. A hero's haircut. But you've always wondered what it would feel like to have it longer, haven't you? Soft and light. Something you could run your fingers through."
He had not thought of that. But as she spoke, the idea took root, and he found that he wanted it. Wanted it badly, with a sweetness that surprised him.
"Let it grow," she said. "Let it become golden. Let it fall past your shoulders. Just a little at first. Just enough to feel the difference."
The warmth inside him gathered in his scalp, prickling like a held breath, and he felt his hair lengthen. The strands thickened and turned pale. He could feel it against his neck, soft and light, brushing his jaw, his collarbone as it grew.
"Open your eyes," she said.
He opened them. She had moved back to the other side of the table and was holding up a small mirror, angled so he could see himself.
The man in the mirror was still him. The broad shoulders, the sharp jaw, the hazel eyes. But the hair was different, golden now, falling in soft waves to his shoulders, catching the light like spun thread. It changed his whole face, softened it, made him look younger, less armored.
"How does that feel?" she asked.
He stared at himself. He should have been horrified. He had built his entire life around a specific image of himself, and this was not it. And yet the feeling blooming in his chest was not fear. It was something closer to relief, a long-held tension releasing.
"Good," he heard himself say. "It feels good."
"Of course it does." She set the mirror down. "You look beautiful. Do you know that? You look so much softer. So much more open. It suits you."
His hand lifted, trembling, and touched the hair at his shoulder. It was silky between his fingers.
"Is this real?" he asked.
"Real as anything else you've ever been." She smiled and came around the table again. "Now, I'm going to ask something else of you. This will feel stranger, but I want you to trust me. Can you do that?"
"Yes."
She knelt in front of him, taking both his hands in hers. Her violet eyes were very close, very deep, and he felt himself falling into them.
"You've always held yourself tight in the chest," she said. "All that muscle, all that bulk. It's heavy, isn't it? It's a burden. It's armor you don't need anymore. I'm going to help you put it down. I'm going to show you what it feels like to be soft and light and full of pleasure instead of weight."
Her hands moved up his arms, over his shoulders, and came to rest on his chest, pressing lightly.
"Let it go," she said. "Let the muscle soften. Let the weight fade. Let your chest become something gentle. Something full. Something that feels good to touch."
The warmth surged. It was stronger this time, more insistent, flooding his chest with a liquid heat that made him gasp. He felt his pectorals shift and melt, the hard slabs of muscle softening, thinning, and then reforming into something entirely different. Something round. Something heavy.
His breath caught as the sensation crested, a strange swelling fullness spreading through his nipples, making them tingle and tighten. The fabric of his shirt stretched against the new weight, and he felt a deep, aching pull at his shoulders as the mass of it settled.
"There," she breathed. "There it is."
He looked down and could not make sense of what he saw. The ridged armor of his chest was gone. In its place, a generous swell of flesh strained against his shirt, the line of his arms no longer bulging with muscle but smooth and pale. He lifted a hand and touched himself, feeling the plush weight, the softness, the shape of it nestled in his palm.
"Oh," he said. It was all he could manage.
"How does that feel?" she asked.
"Soft," he said. "They're so soft."
"Of course they are. They're yours now. Your very own." She ran a finger along the edge of the shirt, tracing the swell, and he shivered so hard his teeth clicked. "And they're just the beginning."
He felt the words sink into him like heavy honey, slow and sweet. They were just the beginning. The thought should have alarmed him. Instead it sent a pulse of warmth through his chest, down into his belly, settling somewhere low and insistent.
Hypnotica rose from her crouch and circled him slowly. Her fingers trailed along his shoulders as she passed, and the touch left a path of heat in its wake. She stopped behind him and gathered his new hair in her hands, lifting it away from his neck, letting it fall through her fingers like water.
"Such a difference," she murmured. "Your whole silhouette has changed already. Your shoulders are narrower. Did you notice?"
He looked down at himself. She was right. The breadth that had once defined him, the wall of muscle he had always stood behind, was gone. His frame had slimmed, his collarbones delicate beneath the straining fabric of his shirt. The weight on his chest pulled his posture forward, made him feel open, exposed.
"They feel heavy," he said.
"Good. You should feel them. Every step, every breath. That's part of the gift." She came around to face him and knelt, her hands resting on his thighs. "Your body is learning to move differently. You've been standing like a soldier. Shoulders back, chest out. But you don't need to stand like that anymore. You can stand softly now. Can you feel how your center of gravity has shifted?"
He nodded. It was true. The weight of his new form had changed the way he sat, the way he breathed. He felt unsteady, fragile, like a thing that had been hollowed out and filled with something lighter.
"Let me help you up," she said, and took his hands.
He rose unsteadily, his legs unaccustomed to the new distribution of his weight. The shirt he was wearing, a plain dark henley, was too tight across the chest. The fabric strained against the swell of him, and the sensation of it, the constant pressure and brush against sensitive skin, was distracting in a way he could not ignore.
"Your clothes don't fit anymore," she observed. "That's all right. We can fix that."
She reached for the hem of his shirt and waited, her eyes asking permission. He looked down at her hands, then at his own reflection, the golden stranger in the mirror, and felt a strange hunger to see more of himself.
"Yes," he said.
She drew the shirt up and over his head, and the air hit his bare skin. He gasped. The sensitivity was extraordinary, the cool air raising goosebumps along his arms and across the newly exposed swell of his chest. He looked down and saw himself properly for the first time.
They were beautiful. Full and round, pale as milk, crowned with nipples that had turned a soft rose pink. He lifted his hands and cupped them, feeling the weight, the warmth, the yielding softness. A shiver ran through him.
"Do you like them?" she asked.
"I don't know," he said, and the honesty of it surprised him. "They feel strange. But good. Very good."
"That's the most honest thing you've said all evening." She stood and stepped close, her body a warm presence in front of his. "I'm going to touch them now, and I want you to let yourself feel everything. Don't push any of it away. Will you do that for me?"
"Yes."
Her hands came up slowly, giving him time to object, and settled beneath the curves of his breasts. Her palms were cool against his flushed skin, and he shuddered as she weighed them in her hands, learning their shape.
"They're perfect," she said. "Do you know what it feels like from the inside? The nerves have all grown with them. They've become the most sensitive part of your body."
She traced her thumbs across his nipples, and he cried out, a sharp, breathy sound that he did not recognize as his own. The sensation was electric, a direct line of pleasure from his chest to somewhere deep between his legs. His knees buckled.
She caught him, one arm around his waist, and lowered him back into the chair. He sat there, breathing hard, his hands gripping the armrests, his nipples aching from the brief touch.
"That's a lot, isn't it?" she said, and there was genuine care in her voice. "Your whole life, you've been armored. Now your body is wide open. Every touch goes straight to the center of you."
He nodded, not trusting his voice.
"I'm going to keep touching you, but more gently now. I want you to feel the pleasure building slowly, like a tide coming in. Not overwhelming. Just a steady rise. Can you feel it?"
Her hands returned, softer this time, tracing the underside of his breasts without touching his nipples. The relief was immediate, then the pleasure started building again, a warm swell that lapped against the edges of his awareness.
"Good," she breathed. "That's so good. You're so responsive. Has anyone ever touched you like this before? With care? With intention?"
He shook his head. No one had. His body had been a tool for so long, a weapon, a shield. No one had ever touched it like it was precious.
"Then this is your first gift," she said. "Pleasure without purpose. Not for anything, not to prove anything. Just for you. Just because it feels good."
The words dissolved into warmth and spread through him. He let his head fall back, his golden hair spilling over the chair's edge. Her hands moved in slow circles, coaxing, worshipping, and he felt himself opening like a flower turned toward the sun.
"I want to teach you something," she said softly. "Close your eyes and feel this. Feel how your body is responding to me. There's no resistance in you now, is there? No tension. You're just feeling. You're just receiving."
He was. The strain of the past week, the past decade, had melted away. There was nothing in him but sensation and warmth and the soft, low hum of her voice.
"Open your eyes," she said.
He did. She was leaning over him, her face close to his, and he could see himself reflected in her violet eyes. A golden-haired creature with a flushed face and parted lips, someone he did not know. Someone beautiful.
"I'm going to kiss you now," she said. "Not a gentle kiss. The kind of kiss that claims you. If you want to stop, tell me, and I will. But I don't think you want to stop."
"No," he breathed. "I don't want to stop."
Her mouth came down on his. It was not soft. It was demanding, possessive, her tongue sweeping into his mouth like she was tasting every part of him. He moaned against her lips, and the sound was swallowed by her. Her hands came up to cup his face, holding him still, and then one slid down his throat, over his collarbone, and closed around his breast.
The pleasure was blinding. He arched into her touch, pressing his chest against her palm, wanting more. She kneaded him gently, her thumb flicking across his nipple, and he broke the kiss to cry out.
"Please," he heard himself say.
"Please what?"
"I don't know." His voice cracked. "I just need more. I need you to keep touching me. I need to feel it."
"I'll give you everything you need," she said. "But first I want you to do something for me. I want you to change something about your voice."
"My voice?"
"It's deep and strong. A hero's voice. But the rest of you is becoming so soft and pretty. It doesn't match." She stroked his throat, and he felt a resonance there, a vibration that spread down into his chest. "Let it get higher. Lighter. Let it sound like the body you're becoming. Like a woman's voice."
The warmth rose again, concentrated in his throat. He felt the tissues shift, the larynx rising, the vocal cords thinning and stretching. It was a strange sensation, like wearing a new set of clothes over his words.
"Say something," she said.
He opened his mouth. "Hello."
The voice that came out was bright and melodic, breathy at the edges. It startled him. It sounded nothing like the voice he had carried for thirty-four years.
"Is that me?" he asked, and the voice climbed even higher with the question, soft and girlish.
"That's you," she said, smiling. "That's the you that's been hiding inside. Do you like it?"
He tested it again. "I do," he said, and the words had a lilt to them, a musical quality that made him want to speak more just to hear them.
"Good. Now, let me ask you something else. Your hips are still broad and heavy, like a man's. Did you know that? When I touched you earlier, I could feel the width of them. Bones are harder to change than flesh, but not impossible for someone like you. Do you want to feel lighter?"
"Yes," he said, and the word came without consultation.
"Then let them narrow. Let the weight fall away from your hips and your thighs. Let your whole lower body become slender and smooth. The kind of body that moves softly, that takes up less space."
The warmth rushed downward, and he felt his skeleton shift. It was not painful, but strange, a deep structural rearrangement that made him gasp. His pelvis narrowed, his thighs slimmed, the heavy muscular bulk of his legs melting away into something long and elegant. He looked down and saw his own body, transformed further, the line of his hip curving into a waist that was almost too narrow to be his.
"There," she said, admiring. "That's so much better. You look like you were always meant to be this. Like the man was the costume, and this is the truth underneath."
He looked at himself. His hands were slender now, his fingers long and graceful. The planes of his body had softened, every edge smoothed into a curve. Only his face remained recognizably his, and even that was changing, the jawline rounding, the cheekbones becoming more prominent, the brow smoothing.
"I'm a different person," he said, and his new voice trembled.
"You're becoming who you always wanted to be. But you didn't know you wanted it, did you? You had buried it so deep. The desire to be soft, to be beautiful, to be held. To be wanted just because you exist, not because of what you can do."
His eyes filled with tears. The words pierced him, true in a way he had never allowed himself to feel. He had wanted this. He had never known how much.
"Come here," she said, and drew him to his feet.
He rose, and the movement was different now. His body swayed, his hips swinging, his new center of gravity making every step a kind of dance. He was shorter than she was now, he realized. The several inches of height, the commanding stature of Morph, had faded away. He looked up at her.
"There you are," Hypnotica said, and her smile was radiant with satisfaction. "Look at you. Pretty little thing. All soft and full and wanting."