They said the SB converter was just a demo — I laughed, signed the waiver, and blinked as the lights swallowed me. One second I was arguing about helmets, the next I was strapped to a glossy slab while robots hummed and a collar warmed my neck. When the chamber sighed open I stepped out different: my face looking strangely familiar on a stranger’s high-cheeked profile, a lacquered suit molding to curves that definitely weren’t mine five minutes ago. The mirror confirmed it — an unintentional swap, alien tech’s joke — and I couldn’t stop the small, disbelieving laugh that turned into a guilty, delighted smile.

There was a delicious dissonance in every move: my hands tracing a new waist, the suit whispering as it hugged hips, the collar’s soft pulse matching my heartbeat. People stared, and something in me loved the way the room tightened around the silhouette that wore my face but not my shape. For all the shock, curiosity slid quickly into something warmer — a bold, flirtatious thrill at discovering what this borrowed body could do, and how dangerous it felt to enjoy it.