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The street looked gray and cheerless. Peeling walls, graffiti on shattered windows, the smell of dampness and gasoline. The asphalt was cracked, with potholes and bumps at every step. And among all this, swaying awkwardly on high heels, walked Brad. Or rather, now the only thing giving him away in this fragile figure were the clumsy attempts to walk straight in those tall heels and… that was it. Officially, on all documents, she was now Ballerina Sapozhnikova, a girl with a very rare name.
The tight black capris clung uncomfortably to her thin, bony hips, while the short beige top exposed a perfectly toned stomach, which now seemed even slimmer than the biceps Brad had spent his whole life training. Her hand clutched nervously at the thin strap of a handbag she kept adjusting. That bag now held everything most important to her — a phone, a wallet, and a whole bunch of other feminine essentials she wasn't ready to think about yet.
"What the hell! I'm walking down the street like a damn… slut?! This has to be some kind of nightmare!" Her fingers gripped the strap tighter as her heel slid again on the uneven asphalt, nearly sending her into another clumsy stumble. "Damn it…" she hissed through her teeth, straightening up and glancing around with that same expression of arrogant disdain Brad used to wear. Only now, it didn’t look menacing. More like… pathetic.
A cold wind brushed against her exposed stomach, making her suck in a sharp breath. "Why is this top so… short? Why is everything so tight? Damn it, and these damn heels… How do people even walk in these?!" Adjusting her purse again, she quickened her pace, desperately trying not to fall. Every step was torture — her knees felt weak, her muscles trembled in unfamiliar ways, and sweat was already beading at her temple.
Up ahead, the same shop appeared. A wooden sign with faded letters, dim lighting inside, a dusty display window. The nauseating scent of old junk seeped through the closed door. Yesterday, when he was still himself, Brad had barged in here looking for some old lighter, and the shopkeeper — a burly old man with a gray beard — had dared to scold him for demanding a discount. "I’ll show you a discount, old fart!" Brad had thrown the cash on the counter and stormed out. And now… now he was returning in this humiliating body.
— "Hey, baby, where you rushing off to?" a voice called from the side.
Ballerina flinched. Two guys in...