I found the phone by accident, half-dead, screen cracked, with only one strange program installed. The icon looked ordinary, but inside was a camera that didn’t just take photos. It took faces. One click, and the person in front of me lost their features in reality — left as a blank mannequin of themselves — while their face got trapped in the app, still blinking behind the glass.

It didn’t take long before I tried the second feature: upload. The moment I pressed it, their trapped face stitched itself onto me. My voice, my memories, my mind stayed mine, but the world saw me as them. Shoes fit, clothes clung, and I could slip into their life like it had always been mine.

The wildest was when I clicked on a blonde TikToker, famous for her dances and sultry skits. With one upload, I had her body: jiggly curves, hair bouncing, crop top tight across my chest. Only my swagger stayed — my jokes, my deep laugh, my clumsy man’s gestures — and somehow, her fans loved it even more. I’d become both man and woman at once, a contradiction the app had made real. And the faces inside my phone? They waited, silently, for me to decide whose life I’d wear next.