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Round 2

The hum of the refrigerator was the only sound in the room, a low, monotonous drone that did little to fill the cavernous silence that had settled between them. It had been three days. Seventy-two hours since John Henderson had ceased to exist, replaced by a five-foot-ten, muscle-bound woman named Joyce. Three days of a waking nightmare, a surreal fugue state where the world had been subtly, yet seismically, altered.

Felix, of course, was loving it.

His modest, permanent fifteen percent boost in muscularity had transformed him. He walked with a new swagger, his shoulders seeming broader, his presence more substantial. He spent hours at the gym, preening in front of the mirrors, sending John obnoxious shirtless selfies captioned with things like, “New PR on bench, u jelly?” John wasn't jelly. He was trapped in a living hell of his best friend’s making.

The first twenty-four hours were a frantic, desperate blur. As soon as Felix had left for the gym, a triumphant smirk plastered on his face, John had grabbed his phone, his fingers feeling thick and clumsy on the familiar screen. He’d hammered out a text to Felix, a string of furious, misspelled words demanding he come back and play again. Right now. The reply, when it finally came an hour later, was a simple, infuriating, “lol no.”

He’d tried calling. Over and over. Each ring that went to voicemail was another nail in the coffin of his old life. He was alone, adrift in this new reality, and the one person who could help him, the one person who understood, was ghosting him.

Eventually, the gnawing emptiness in his stomach had become too insistent to ignore. He had to leave the dorm. He had a midterm in his advanced algorithms class, and even in the midst of a full-blown existential crisis, the thought of failing was a more immediate, tangible fear. He’d pulled on one of his old t-shirts, the cotton stretching uncomfortably tight across his new B-cups, the sleeves straining around his biceps. He paired it with a pair of gym shorts that now fit a little too snugly around his subtly wider hips. The whole ensemble felt wrong, a costume he couldn’t take off.

Walking across campus was an exercise in pure, paranoid terror. He was convinced every glance was a stare, every whisper was about him. But no one seemed to notice anything amiss. People he knew waved, calling out, “Hey, Joyce!” as if they’d been doing it their whole lives. In class, the professor called on “Ms. Henderson” to solve a problem on the whiteboard, and he’d walked to the front of the room on autopilot, his own handwriting looking alien to him as it flowed from his new, more slender hand.

The reminders were constant, a thousand tiny paper cuts to his sanity. When he reached across his desk to grab an eraser, the soft, fleshy side of his breast would brush against his arm, a sensation so foreign it made him flinch. When he looked down to read his textbook, his new, shoulder-length black hair would fall into his eyes, a silky curtain he was constantly, impatiently, tucking behind his ear. He’d go to scratch an itch on his crotch and his fingers would find only a smooth, unnerving emptiness. And every time he spoke, every time he answered a question or muttered a curse under his breath, the voice that came out was not his own. It was a pleasant, feminine alto, a stranger living in his throat.

Slowly, terrifyingly, he began to get used to it. The flinches became less frequent, the shock of his own reflection in a shop window less jarring. He was becoming Joyce, and John was fading, a ghost haunting the new architecture of his own body.

Felix finally texted him back late that night. ‘Sorry dude, had a date. Went great! And holy shit, it’s so weird, your contact in my phone says Joyce now. This game is wild.’

The casual, almost flippant tone of the message sent a fresh wave of rage washing over him. He called him immediately.

“You have to play again,” he’d said, his voice tight, desperate, the words tumbling out before Felix could even say hello.

“Whoa, chill out, Joyce,” Felix had replied, his voice tinny through the speaker. John could hear the faint sound of music and laughter in the background. He was at a party. While John was rotting in their dorm room, trapped in a woman’s body, Felix was out living his best life.

“Don’t call me that!” he’d snapped. “This isn’t funny, Felix. You did this to me. You have to help me fix it.”

“Look, man. I’m sorry, okay? But there’s no way I’m playing that game again. It’s too risky. I got lucky. I got a permanent muscle boost and got out clean. You… you didn’t. That sucks. But I am not risking waking up with a vagina just to help you out. It’s not worth it.”

They argued for twenty minutes, a circular, fruitless conversation that ended with Felix hanging up, leaving John clutching a dead phone, his knuckles white, his reflection in the dark screen a silent, mocking testament to his powerlessness.

The next few days were a quiet, simmering hell. He went to his classes. He studied. He ate. He even went to the gym, the familiar clang of weights and the burn in his muscles a comforting echo of his old life. It was the only silver lining. He was strong. Incredibly strong. He was out-lifting most of the guys there, his muscular female form a strange, intimidating spectacle. But every time he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror—the powerful physique topped with a pretty, feminine face and a cascade of dark hair—a fresh wave of despair would wash over him. He just wished he could be this strong as a guy.

He’d even tried to play TF Duel by himself. He’d set up the game, his heart pounding with a desperate hope, and drawn a goal card. Nothing happened. The cards remained blank, inert, just useless pieces of black cardboard. The instructions were clear, in their own cryptic way. It was a duel. It needed two players.

He could, he supposed, find some other unsuspecting soul. Some freshman he could convince to play a “cool new card game.” But the thought of doing to someone else what Felix had done to him… it made his stomach churn. At least, not yet. He had one last plan. One last, desperate gambit to get his friend, his best friend, to do the right thing.

Which led him to now. Thursday evening. The familiar digital fanfare of his victory screen filled the dorm room as he executed a flawless finishing combo, obliterating Felix’s character for the third time in a row.

“Goddammit!” Felix yelled, slamming his controller down. “How are you so good at this game?”

John shrugged, setting his own controller aside. “Talent, I guess.”

Felix looked him up and down, a teasing smirk on his face. “Wow, those dainty new hands of yours still know their way around a controller, huh, Joyce?”

The name, meant to be a playful jab, landed like a punch to the gut. The rage, the frustration, the sheer, suffocating injustice of it all, simmered just beneath his skin. But he forced a smile. He had to play this cool. “Yep. Guess some things don’t change.” He stretched, rolling his powerful shoulders. “So, you up for another game? I’ve got something new I want to try.”

Felix’s interest was piqued. “Oh yeah? What is it?”

John reached under his bed and pulled out a small, generic-looking box. On the cover, in bright, cheesy lettering, were the words: TRUTH OR DARE: THE ULTIMATE PARTY GAME.

Felix burst out laughing. “Seriously? Truth or Dare? Dude, that’s like, a PG version of TF Duel.” He glanced over at his own desk, where the ominous black box sat like a sleeping predator. “And for the record, there is no way in hell I am ever touching that magic crap again. Not worth the risk.”

“Yeah, well, this one is just a normal, boring, non-magical game,” John said, his voice casual as he opened the box and started shuffling a deck of colorful, laminated cards. “No risk of waking up with a dick. Might be fun, though.”

Felix still looked unsure. “I don’t know, man. It seems kinda lame.”

John looked him straight in the eye, a slow, calculated smirk spreading across his lips. “If you play… I’ll let you see my tits.”

Felix froze. His eyes widened, a flicker of genuine, primal curiosity warring with his better judgment. He laughed, a short, sharp bark of disbelief. “You’re on, buddy.”

“Great. Go grab us some drinks. I’ll set up,” John said, turning his back to Felix to hide the triumphant, predatory glint in his eyes.

As soon as Felix was out of the room, heading to their small kitchenette, John moved with a swift, silent efficiency. He shoved the Truth or Dare box back under his bed and pulled out the real game. TF Duel. With practiced, trembling hands, he laid out the two decks of blank, black cards, the setup an exact mirror of that fateful night just a few days ago. His heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic drumbeat of hope and deceit. This had to work.

Felix returned a moment later, a mug of coffee in his hand. “Alright, let’s do this,” he said, flopping down into his beanbag chair. “I am so ready to find out all your deep, dark, girly secrets.” He reached for the deck of cards in the middle of the floor, his brow furrowing in confusion as his fingers met the familiar, velvety texture of the blank black cards. “Hey, wait a minute…”

He flipped a card over, thinking he was looking at the wrong side. Blank. He looked at the setup again. The two decks. The ominous, featureless black. A cold, dawning horror crept up his spine. “John… what is this?”

But it was too late. John had already drawn a card from the Goal Deck. He slapped it down between them.

“Gotcha,” he said, his voice a low, triumphant whisper.

As if on cue, the cards in Felix’s hand and the Goal Card on the floor began to glow with that now-familiar, ethereal silver light. The game had started. He was in.

“You son of a bitch!” Felix roared, scrambling to his feet, the cards scattering from his lap. “Are you fucking kidding me?! I told you I wasn’t playing this!”

“Can you blame me?!” John yelled back, getting to his feet as well, the two of them facing off in the small dorm room. “You’re my best friend, Felix! You did this to me, and you just… you just left me! You abandoned me! What was I supposed to do?!”

“Anything but this!” Felix shouted, his face red with a mixture of fury and genuine fear. “I’m not doing this. Fuck this.” He turned and stormed towards the door, yanking on the handle. It didn’t budge. He rattled it furiously, but it was locked solid. He spun around, a wild, panicked look in his eyes, and lunged for the window, trying to force it open. It was sealed shut, as if it were welded to the frame.

“What the hell is going on?” he breathed, pressing his face against the cool glass. And then he saw it. Or rather, he didn’t see it. He didn’t see anything moving. Outside, the world was a perfect, frozen tableau. A girl on a bike was paused mid-pedal, her hair suspended in the air. A bird hung in the sky, its wings outstretched, motionless. The leaves on the trees were perfectly still, not even a hint of a breeze. Time had stopped.

“Holy shit,” John whispered, coming to stand beside him, his own anger forgotten in the face of this new, impossible revelation. They were trapped. Not just in the room, but in a bubble of frozen time. The game had insulated them from the rest of reality.

The sheer, terrifying power of the game washed over them both. After a long, stunned silence, Felix let out a slow, defeated sigh. He turned away from the window, the fight draining out of him, replaced by a sullen, resentful resignation. He walked back to his beanbag chair and sat down, refusing to look at John. The game, it seemed, was on.

John picked up the glowing Goal Card, his own heart still pounding from the adrenaline. He read the silver text aloud.

“GOAL: BE THE FIRST PLAYER TO GET A STRANGER TO BUY YOU AN ALCOHOLIC DRINK.”

He looked at Felix, who was still pointedly staring at the wall. “Well,” John said, trying to sound more confident than he felt. “Shouldn’t be too hard.” He gathered his seven newly-revealed Effect Cards. The real battle was about to begin.

“Turn one,” John announced into the tense silence. “Affect yourself. On three.”

Felix didn’t respond, but he picked up his cards, his jaw tight.

“One… two… three.”

They both played a card, slapping them down face-up. The silver text shimmered into view for both of them to see.

John’s card read: MUSCLE DECREASE -50%.

Felix’s card read: MUSCLE INCREASE +50%.

The changes were immediate. John felt a strange, deflating sensation, the hard, dense muscle he’d spent the last few days getting used to softening, shrinking, melting away. He was still a woman, but his physique was now slender, toned, but no longer intimidatingly muscular. He was back to his baseline, pre-game fitness level, just… in a female form.

Felix, on the other hand, let out a low groan as his body swelled, the new fifty percent increase stacking on top of his permanent fifteen percent. His already impressive physique exploded into something truly monstrous. He was a mountain of muscle, his t-shirt straining to contain a chest and arms that would put a professional bodybuilder to shame.

He looked over at John, a confused, angry scowl on his face. “Why would you do that? I thought you wanted to be a guy. Why didn’t you play a gender flip card?”

“Because being a guy isn’t going to help me win, you idiot,” John retorted, a smug little smile playing on his lips. “What guy is going to get another guy to buy him a drink? My plan is to win this round, and then hopefully get a gender swap card as my reward. A permanent one.” He looked Felix up and down, a pitying look on his face. “And you just made it harder for yourself. Who’s going to buy a drink for… that?”

A flicker of doubt crossed Felix’s face, but it was quickly replaced by a cocky smirk. “It doesn’t matter. I don’t even care if I lose this round. I’d be happy to be stuck like this permanently. This is a win-win for me.”

John’s eyes narrowed. The thought of Felix getting everything he wanted, while John was still stuck, was infuriating. “We’ll see about that,” he hissed. “Turn two. Affect each other.”

They chose their cards with a new, venomous intensity. This was war.

“Three!”

They slapped their cards down.

John’s card, played on Felix, was the one he’d been saving: GENDER SWAP.

Felix’s card, played on John, read: AGE -2 YEARS.

John felt a strange, tingling sensation, a subtle shift in the cells of his body. He looked at his hands. They seemed… smoother. He pulled out his phone, switched to the front-facing camera. His face was still his—well, Joyce’s—but the faintest lines of maturity were gone. He looked younger, fresher, like a nineteen-year-old girl.

He was about to laugh at Felix’s pathetic attempt at sabotage when he heard a strangled gasp. He looked up. Felix was staring down at his own body in pure, unadulterated horror. His mountain of muscle was being reshaped, softened. His massive chest was shrinking, the hard pecs swelling into a pair of large, firm breasts. His waist was cinching in, his hips flaring out. His face was morphing, the rugged, masculine features softening into a powerful, but undeniably female, handsomeness. A cascade of light brown hair tumbled down to his shoulders. He was a girl. A six-foot-tall, incredibly muscular girl.

“Welcome to the club, asshole,” John said, a vicious, triumphant grin spreading across his face.

Felix was still processing, his large, muscular hands tentatively patting down his new chest. “They’re… they’re not very big,” he muttered, a confused, dazed look in his eyes. For all his muscle, his breasts were a modest B-cup, looking almost comical on his massive frame.

“Well, you’re not very feminine to begin with,” John said dismissively. “Your card didn’t even do anything. Who cares if I look a little younger?”

A slow, wicked smile spread across Felix’s new, feminine face. “You idiot,” he said, his voice a surprisingly pleasant, husky contralto. “You’re nineteen now. Check your ID.”

John’s blood ran cold. He fumbled for his wallet, his fingers trembling as he pulled out his license. The picture was of his new, nineteen-year-old face. The birth year had changed. He was no longer twenty-one.

“You can’t legally be served alcohol,” Felix said, the smugness returning to his voice.

“There are plenty of college bars that don’t card that carefully,” John shot back, trying to hide the panic rising in his chest. “It’s still easier than your situation. Good luck getting anyone to buy a drink for a six-foot-tall she-hulk!”

Felix looked down at his own formidable physique, and the confidence in his eyes wavered. He realized John was right. He couldn’t let him win now. He couldn’t be stuck like this.

“Final turn,” John announced, his mind already racing, formulating a new plan. “Player’s choice.”

He knew exactly what he needed. He selected his card. Felix, after a moment of consideration, did the same.

They played their cards.

John’s card, played on himself, read: D-CUP BREASTS.

Felix’s card, played on himself, read: RUNNER’S BUILD.

Felix instinctively crossed his arms over his chest thinking that John’s breast card was intended for him, bracing for the impact of growing large breasts, but the transformation didn’t hit him. Instead, he watched as John let out a sharp gasp, his own chest suddenly, dramatically, swelling. His modest breasts blossomed, growing from a small B-cup to a pair of large, heavy, perfectly shaped D-cups that strained against the fabric of his t-shirt.

“I gave them to myself, idiot,” John said, a little breathlessly, looking down at his new, magnificent cleavage. “They’ll help me win. And then they’ll vanish anyway.”

At the same time, Felix felt a radical restructuring sweep through his own body. The immense, bulky muscle he’d gained from the previous card didn’t vanish, but was chiseled down and redistributed with brutal efficiency. The mountainous mass on his shoulders, chest, and biceps seemed to melt away, flowing downwards, leaving behind sleek, toned arms and a narrower, more athletic upper frame. The power was re-forged in his lower body. His glutes lifted and rounded, hardening into the high, powerful globes of an Olympic sprinter. His legs became a masterpiece of athletic form, long cords of muscle defining his quads and calves without a hint of bulk. His torso leaned out dramatically, his waist tapering above his strong hips, revealing a flat, washboard stomach. The monstrous, top-heavy build of the she-hulk was gone, replaced by the balanced, powerful, and undeniably sexy physique of a world-class female runner. He was still an Amazon, but one built for speed and grace, not brute force.

“Smart choice,” John admitted, admiring Felix’s new form. “But not good enough to beat these.” He hefted his new breasts, which jiggled with a mesmerizing, almost hypnotic weight. “Let the games begin.”

He didn’t waste a second. While Felix was still prodding at his newly toned stomach and the feminine curve of his waist, marveling at the strange, wonderful efficiency of his new body, John was already rummaging through his closet. He grabbed one of his old white button-up shirts and pulled it on, leaving the top three buttons undone to show off a scandalous amount of cleavage. He snatched a pair of Felix’s black running compression shorts that normally are worn under regular workout shorts, but they fit him like a pair of tight, revealing girls bike shorts, just as he hoped. He was a vision of desperate, calculated sexuality.

He ran for the door, his new breasts bouncing with a wild, unfamiliar momentum that was both distracting and strangely exhilarating. He had to cup them with one hand to keep them steady as he sprinted out of the room.

The door slamming shut snapped Felix out of his trance. “Oh, shit!” he yelled, jumping to his feet. John had a head start. He frantically searched for something to wear. His old clothes were now ridiculously baggy in some places and too tight in others. He settled on a t-shirt and his old running tights, which now fit his new, feminine legs like a second skin looking like women’s leggings. The t-shirt, however, looked ridiculous, hanging off him like a tent. In a flash of inspiration, he grabbed a pair of scissors from his desk and hastily cropped it, turning it into a makeshift sports top that showed off a tantalizing slice of his new, rock-hard abs. A little better. He felt his stomach again. Damn. This runner’s build was incredible.

Feeling lighter, faster, more agile than ever before, he bolted out of the room.

John ran straight for The Keg, their usual campus-adjacent dive bar. But tonight, a mountain of a man with a thick neck and a bored expression stood guard at the door. A bouncer. John slowed to a walk, trying to look casual, and got in the short line. When he reached the front, he batted his eyelashes, leaned forward to give the bouncer a generous view down his shirt, and smiled sweetly. “Hi,” he cooed.

The bouncer was unmoved. “ID,” he grunted.

John’s heart sank. He handed it over. The bouncer glanced at it, then back at him. “Can’t let you in, sweetheart. Come back in two years.”

Defeated, John stomped away, his magnificent, useless breasts bouncing in angry rhythm with his steps.

“Having trouble, Joyce?” a familiar, husky voice called out. He turned to see Felix sauntering past him, flashing his own (legally valid) ID at the bouncer and slipping into the bar with a triumphant, mocking smirk. John was screwed.

Inside the bar, however, Felix’s luck wasn’t much better. His height and athletic build, while attractive in a sterile, athletic way, were proving to be intimidating. He’d walk up to a guy, try to act cute and flirty, and ask if he’d buy him a drink. They’d look him up and down, their eyes lingering on his powerful yet not very womanly , and then politely, but firmly, decline. He was getting nowhere.

Meanwhile, John was in a full-blown panic. He tried another bar down the street, but it was the same story. A strict bouncer, an impenetrable door. “What’s going on tonight?” he asked a dejected-looking student who’d also just been turned away.

“Cops are crawling all over campus,” the student explained. “Some underage girl got wasted at a bar last night, fell down a flight of stairs, and broke her leg. The university is cracking down. Hard.”

“Oh, just my fucking luck,” John muttered, stomping away with a distinctly un-ladylike gait.

A new plan formed in his mind. A desperate, last-ditch effort. He headed for the campus liquor store. He couldn’t go in, but he could wait outside. He didn’t have to wait long. A group of three lanky, frat-boy types came walking up, laughing and joking. John took a deep breath, put on his most innocent, helpless expression, and intercepted them.

“Excuse me?” he said, his voice a soft, breathy whisper. “I’m so sorry to bother you, but I left my ID at home, and I was really hoping to get some vodka for a party tonight. Would you guys mind helping me out?” He leaned forward, giving them the full, D-cup experience.

Their eyes dropped immediately to his chest, their conversation dying in their throats. They looked at each other, a silent, hormonal communication passing between them.

“I… uh… I don’t know,” one of them stammered.

John played his trump card. “I’ll show you my tits if you do,” he said, his voice a low, conspiratorial murmur.

Their eyes went wide. They looked at each other again, their expressions a mixture of disbelief and pure, unadulterated glee. “Deal,” the leader said, not even trying to hide his grin. They went inside. John waited, his heart pounding. This was it.

Back at The Keg, Felix was about to give up. He was sitting at the bar, nursing a glass of water, when a woman slid onto the stool next to him. She was cute, with a kind smile and warm, intelligent eyes.

“Rough night?” the woman asked.

Felix sighed. “You have no idea.”

“I saw those guys reject you,” the woman said, shaking her head. “They’re jerks. Don’t let them get you down. You’re gorgeous, by the way. In a really cool, powerful way.”

The genuine, unexpected compliment made Felix blush. “Oh. Uh. Thanks.”

“Let me buy you a real drink,” the woman said with a smile. “What are you having?”

Felix was about to politely decline, but then his brain caught up. A stranger. Buying him an alcoholic drink. It didn’t have to be a guy. It didn’t have to be flirty. This still counted.

“Yes,” he said, a little too quickly. “Yes, please. I’ll have a gin and tonic.”

The woman smiled and flagged down the bartender. She was ordering the drink, he was so close, he was about to win—

And then the world dissolved into a dizzying swirl of light. He was back in the dorm room, the faint smell of gin still in his nose. Time had reset. And sitting across from him, a triumphant, shit-eating grin on his face, was John. Or rather, Joyce. He was back to how he looked before the round had started. A short, muscular woman with B-cup breasts.

“What… how?” Felix stammered, looking down at his own body, which was still the lean, powerful, Amazonian form he’d acquired during the game. It was permanent. He was stuck.

“You tricked me into playing!” he yelled, the full weight of his new reality crashing down on him. “That’s so unfair!”

“Life’s unfair,” John said smugly. “How’d you almost win?”

“Some nice woman offered to buy me a drink,” Felix said sullenly. “How’d you win? No bar on campus would have let you in.”

“They didn’t have to,” John said with a shrug. “I just promised to show my tits to some frat guys outside the liquor store if they bought me a bottle of vodka.”

Felix stared at him, his jaw slack with disbelief. “You… you didn’t.”

“Of course I did,” John said, lifting his shirt mimicking the action for Felix even though his current breasts are much smaller. “They were very appreciative” He says, recalling the moment himself.

“As if! And whoa dude chill, you can drop your shirt, I get it…”

“Dude, think about it,” John said, leaning forward and dropping his shirt. “Time resets. The world was frozen. I could have stripped naked and done a fucking cartwheel down the middle of campus and no one would ever know. The game is the only thing that’s real.”

Felix’s mind reeled. He was right. The implications were staggering.

As he was coming to terms with his new, permanent female form, a soft chime sounded, and a single black card slid from the game box. John’s prize. He picked it up, his face a mask of desperate hope. He was praying for a gender swap card. He turned it over. The silver text shimmered into existence: YOGA BUILD.

He looked disappointed for a moment, then shrugged. “Well, it’s better than being a muscle-bound freak,” he said, and tapped the card to his chest.

The transformation was subtle, but profound. The dense, powerful muscle melted away, replaced by a lean, flexible, perfectly toned grace. His body became a symphony of elegant lines and gentle curves. He was still a woman, but he was no longer an intimidating one. He was… kinda cute. Genuinely. He walked over to the mirror, turning this way and that, admiring his new form. The flat stomach, the perky, yoga-sculpted ass, the long, graceful limbs.

“Damn,” he breathed, a slow, appreciative smile spreading across his face. “My body is actually kind of hot.”

“Don’t tell me you’re enjoying this!” Felix shrieked, his voice cracking with a mixture of rage and betrayal.

John turned from the mirror, a strange, thoughtful look in his eyes. “You know… having big tits was kind of fun. And seriously, you gotta try cumming as a girl. It’s insane.”

Felix looked mortified, disgusted, and furious all at once. “Dude…” He started to reply, but John cut him off. “...I’m just trying to see the silver lining. I spend the last three fucking days as a girl thanks to you. So yeah, I’ve had to get a little used to it. Of course I don’t LIKE being a girl, I want to be me again!”

 “So let’s play again!” Felix demanded. “We have to play again! Now!”

John laughed, a soft, feminine sound that grated on Felix’s nerves. “Buddy. Relax. Now that we’re in the same boat, we can work together. We can team up to get ourselves changed back to normal.”

Felix’s response was immediate and visceral. “No,” he snarled, his new, feminine face contorted with a raw, masculine fury. “No. You fucked my life up. Look at me. I don’t want to be a fucking girl.”

“News flash, neither do I, buddy!” John yelled back.

“Fuck this,” Felix said, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous growl. “I’m getting myself back to normal. And I’m going to leave you as a chick. Permanently.”

John’s smile faded, replaced by a cold, hard glare. “Oh, so you’re gonna play it like that, huh? Fine.” He walked towards him, his new, graceful body moving with a predatory confidence. He stuck out his hand. “After dinner tonight. Round three.”

Felix slapped his hand into his, their handshake a silent declaration of war. The feud had begun.

John turned and stormed out of the room, leaving Felix alone with his new body, his new life, and his burning, all-consuming rage. He looked down at his hands, his lean, powerful, female hands. He tentatively reached down, his fingers brushing against the strange, slick fabric of his leggings. He poked, prodded, his curiosity warring with his disgust. A faint, electric jolt of pleasure shot through him, and he snatched his hand away as if he’d been burned.

“Fuck this,” he growled to the empty room. He stood up, his movements stiff, angry. “I’m going to hit the gym.” He stalked towards the door, grabbing his wallet and keys. “And maybe buy some new fucking clothes.”

The door slammed shut behind him, the sound echoing the final, irrevocable closing of a door on his old life.