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Stephanie, what the hell have you gotten me into?!
We came here together. This was all her idea. She talked me into it, painting vivid pictures of how rich we’d get, how it was just a game, an experiment that would make us stronger and closer. "We’ll handle it, Mike," – her words echoed in my head like a cruel joke.
We signed the contracts together, went through interviews with those damn scientists. It felt like ridiculous formalities at the time—they asked questions about our personalities, habits, preferences. "It’s for better role customization," one of the supervisors explained, and I just scoffed. I didn’t care; I was only thinking about the money.
I closed my eyes, remembering the moment they led us into separate rooms. Stephanie smiled at me as she waved goodbye, as if we were just going on different rides at an amusement park. I had no idea that the next time I’d see her—or not see her at all—everything would change.
They laid me down in some kind of pod, hooked me up to machines, lights blinking above my head, and then I blacked out. When I woke up, I was here, in this body, with this goddamned chest and hair. And Stephanie was nowhere to be found.
I let out a heavy sigh and turned toward the mirror. In the reflection stood a girl—beautiful, delicate, but clearly lost. Her wide eyes stared back at me, filled with despair. That was me. Or... not me.
Raising my hand slowly, I touched my face. It was still mine. Cheekbones, nose—everything was familiar, but the lips... Damn it, they looked fuller. What the hell?! And what started below my chin, well, I wasn’t even going to comment on that.
I touched my collarbones, fingers sliding over smooth, soft skin. The chest, heavy and strange, rose and fell with every breath. It was too big, far bigger than any girl I’d ever dated. My fingers reflexively squeezed, feeling the softness beneath the bra’s fabric—foreign but disturbingly real. Disgusted, I pulled my hand away, repulsed by how the flesh gave under my touch. Too real. Too alive. Like it had always been a part of me.
– God, – I exhaled, fighting a surge of panic. – What the hell did they do to me…
I stepped back from the mirror, feeling an increasing weight in my chest—not just physical, but emotional. The whole scene—this new house, the unfamiliar clothes, this alien appearance—felt like a trap with no escape.
My eyes fell on a piece of paper lying on the table near the kitchen. I walked over slowly and picked it up, my hands trembling despite myself. The paper bore neatly printed instructions in a cold, impersonal font.
Welcome, Mrs. Kowalska.
1. Your husband, Marek, is expected to arrive this evening. Please ensure the house is clean and dinner is ready for his arrival.
2. You will find several outfits in the bedroom closet. Please choose an appropriate one.
3. The kitchen is stocked with all necessary ingredients for the recipe provided on the second page.
4. Please note that any deviations from the scenario will be recorded and reviewed during the scheduled feedback sessions with your supervisors.
My gaze shifted to a folder lying nearby. Still unsure if I wanted to, I picked it up with my dainty hands, noticing the long nails that now adorned my fingers. Inside the folder was a strange document, resembling a passport. The cover was burgundy, with a gold emblem and text in a language I didn’t immediately recognize: Rzeczpospolita Polska. For a moment, I stared at the words until a long-buried memory surfaced: The Republic of Poland.
– What the… – I muttered, opening the passport, feeling a cold wave of realization run down my spine.
On the first page was a photo. My face. Well, almost my face. A smiling woman with perfectly styled hair in a neat bun, earrings, and bright makeup stared back at me. It was my face. Except for the lips—they were fuller, and it started dawning on me that they must’ve injected me with some kind of goddamned Botox!
“Jesus Christ…” I breathed out, my hands trembling harder. I slowly set the passport on the table, but the image stayed burned into my mind. It was like looking into a parallel universe where I, Mike O’Connor, had never existed.
Taking a deep breath to steady myself, I sat in the nearest chair, clutching the folder to my chest. Its cold plastic felt like the only thing anchoring me to reality. But I had to figure out what these bastards had planned for me in this twisted experiment.
Opening the folder, I stared at the neatly arranged pages. The first few outlined the “biography” of Apolonia Kowalska. My fingers, now slim and too delicate, flipped through them.