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"No... This isn't the right place... It was supposed to be the interview with my stepdad... What the hell am I doing here like I've already...?"
— Miss Akira? — The voice from the speaker echoed again, this time sharper.
Tyler jolted, and the words slipped from his lips on their own — soft, submissive, too quiet, yet just enough for the person on the other end to hear:
— U-uh... y-yes, sir...
He froze, heat flooding his cheeks. The voice. High, melodic, with a faint Asian accent.
"Why am I talking like this? I'm supposed to be..."
Before he could finish the thought, the answers came crashing into his mind so suddenly it left him ashamed he'd even questioned it.
— ...Akira Takasaki... — flashed through his head like a bolt of lightning, and then it spilled from his lips in a soft whisper.
A name. A surname. The knowledge was so sharp, so clear, as if he'd always known it. As if it was his name.
Age: 35. Role: personal secretary to Mr. Farrell, CEO of F-Tech Solutions. Experience: five years in this position, previously working at the Tokyo branch of the same company. The accent? Because she was born and raised in Japan, moving to the U.S. five years ago for this job.
"Wait. What the hell?! This... this isn’t me. These aren’t my thoughts. This is her life... This isn’t me... I'm Tyler... I..."
Panic started to rise. Tyler gripped the chair’s armrests tightly, feeling the strange, persistent pressure on his chest again — the straps of the bra digging into his shoulders, the unfamiliar weight on his chest pressing more noticeably with every shaky breath. But even that sensation, oddly enough, was beginning to feel... familiar?
"No, stop! This isn’t normal!"
He had to tell his mother. Something had gone horribly wrong! He was in the body of this... Akira, and not even in his stepfather's office!
"Focus. Just call her. Tell her it’s a mistake! Make her undo this crazy spell!"
— Miss Takasaki? — The voice returned, sharper now, tinged with clear irritation. — And bring me the Atlas Project reports as well. They’re on the conference room table. Don’t forget.
Tyler flinched. And then, like a switch being flipped—
— Of course, sir. — The words left his mouth before he even realized he had spoken. The voice was soft, polite, with a touch of carefully measured obedience.
Another jolt.
"Coffee. Now. The reports too. But coffee first."
The thought was so sudden, so loud, it drowned out everything else. Urgent. No, critical. Why?
He didn’t know how, but he was already rising from the chair, the snug skirt gripping his hips, forcing him into small, smooth steps. His feet... they moved differently. A subtle sway in his hips, the rhythmic click of heels against the floor. Toes pointed slightly inward. Every movement felt oddly natural — yet not his own.
Thin heels.
He felt them. Felt how they shifted his posture. But his steps remained steady, fluid, elegant in a way he hadn’t even tried to control. It was just... happening. As though it was the way he’d always walked.
"No, what the... Why am I thinking about getting coffee instead of calling Mom?!"
He wanted to stop, but his legs kept carrying him toward the coffee machine. Everything inside him screamed that this was the most important task in the world.
Tyler tried to resist again, but how do you fight something that now felt as natural as breathing?
Coffee and documents. Everything else can wait.