Detective Frank Moreno slammed the case file down on the metal table, the sound echoing through the sparse interview room. Across from him sat Diesel, the president of the Blood Engines motorcycle club, a leather jacket over his meaty frame and his beard speckled with gray. Despite being deep in the police precinct, Diesel seemed oddly relaxed, almost amused.

"We've got you dead to rights on the meth distribution, Diesel," Frank said, loosening his tie slightly. The interview room was always too damn hot, and his trench coat wasn't helping matters. "Three of your boys already flipped. The DA is pushing for maximum sentencing, but I could put in a good word if you give us your supplier."

Diesel's shoulders began to shake, a low chuckle building into a full belly laugh that made his jacket rustle against the table.

"Something funny about twenty-five to life?" Frank asked, his patience wearing thin. He'd been chasing the Blood Engines for eighteen months, and Diesel's cavalier attitude was getting under his skin.

"Yeah, detective. Something real funny," Diesel replied, wiping a tear from his eye. "See, I don't need to cut any deals. This investigation? It's over."

Frank leaned forward, resting his palms on the cool metal table. "What the hell are you talking about? We've got testimonies, product seized from your clubhouse, surveillance images-"

"None of that matters when the lead detective is about to stop the investigation," Diesel interrupted, his eyes twinkling with mischief.

The statement hit Frank like a punch to the gut. Was this a threat? Had they gotten to someone in the department? Frank's mind raced through the possibilities.

"What the hell does that mean?" Frank demanded, his voice dropping dangerously low.

Diesel leaned back in his chair as far as the fixed chair would allow, a satisfied smirk spreading across his face. "It means I've got an offer for you, detective. How'd you like to join my crew?"

Frank scoffed, shaking his head in disbelief. "You're more delusional than I thought. I've spent my career putting scumbags like you behind bars. Why would I suddenly decide to lead a criminal organization?"

This only made Diesel laugh harder. "Who said anything about leading? The only position I've got open is 'bitch'."

Frank's hand instinctively moved toward his holster, but he caught himself. This was just Diesel trying to get under his skin, to provoke a reaction that would compromise the case.

"You're wasting my time," Frank growled, gathering his papers.

"Am I?" Diesel asked, nodding toward the large one-way mirror on the wall behind Frank. "Take a look for yourself, detective. Go on."

Something in Diesel's confident tone made Frank's skin crawl. Despite his better judgment, Frank turned to look at his reflection in the mirror, expecting to see nothing but himself—a weathered 50-year-old detective with slicked back greying, five o'clock shadow, and tired eyes that had seen too much.

But as he turned, a strange sensation filled the room. The air pressure changed suddenly, making Frank's ears pop. A warm, unnatural wind began to swirl around him, seemingly coming from nowhere and everywhere at once.

"What the-" Frank started, but his words were cut short as the wind intensified, focusing directly on him like some kind of supernatural cyclone.

The gust hit him with unexpected force, nearly knocking him off his feet. Frank raised his arms to shield his face, but the wind seemed to have a mind of its own. It tore at his trench coat, ripping at the fabric until it disintegrated into nothing, the pieces carried away by the unnatural current.

"Jesus Christ!" Frank yelled, watching in horror as his white dress shirt began to fray and tear, buttons popping off and clattering across the floor until that too was stripped away, leaving his upper body exposed.

Diesel remained seated, completely unaffected by the wind, watching with unmistakable satisfaction.

Frank staggered as another wave of the wind hit him, but this time it seemed to pass through him rather than around him. He felt a strange draining sensation, as if something essential was being pulled from his body. He looked down in shock to see his muscular frame to shrink.

"What's happening to me?" Frank gasped, watching as his pectoral muscles seemed to soften and recede, his biceps thinning visibly before his eyes. The wind circled his torso, narrowing his waist while his hips began to widen subtly.

But the wind wasn't just taking away; it was also adding. As Frank watched in horror, intricate tattoos began to appear on his arms—a rose on his right arm winding down into a full sleeve, a pair of wings spreading across his upper back. The tattoos didn't hurt as they appeared; instead, they felt like they were being uncovered, as if they'd always been there beneath his skin.

"Stop this!" Frank shouted at Diesel, who merely shrugged in amusement with his arms crossed.

Before Frank could react, the supernatural wind changed direction, now blowing directly at his face. He felt his short-cropped hair being pulled, stretched like taffy as years of growth happened in seconds causing his hair extended past his ears, past his shoulders, lightening from brown to honey-blonde as it grew.

Frank reached up to touch his face, finding his stubble had vanished, replaced by smooth skin. His jawline felt softer and more delicate under his fingertips. His cheekbones seemed higher, his lips fuller.

As the wind began to die down, Frank expected to be left half-naked in the interview room, but instead, new clothing materialized around him. A black leather vest adorned with studs appeared, incredibly low-cut and showing an alarming amount of cleavage that hadn't been there moments before. Tight, ripped pants hugged newly curved hips, and heavy black boots replaced his sensible oxfords.

The wind finally subsided completely, leaving an eerie silence in the room. Frank stood frozen, afraid to look up at the mirror, but unable to resist. Slowly, he raised his eyes.

Instead of the seasoned male detective that had entered the room, a tattooed blonde woman stared back at him from the glass. Her eyes were still his hazel color, but now framed by long lashes. Full lips parted in shock. A small diamond stud sparkled in her nose. The leather vest strained against an impressive chest above legs that seemed impossibly long in the tight denim.

Frank raised a trembling hand to his new face, watching as the reflection did the same with slender fingers tipped by black-painted nails.

"What the fuck did you do to me?" Frank asked, his voice now higher, softer, with a slight rasp that sounded like it belonged to someone who smoked a pack a day.

Diesel stood up casually, stretching as if he'd just woken from a nap rather than witnessing (or causing?) a complete physical transformation.

"Just calling in a favor from an old friend who deals in things the police academy doesn't teach about," he said vaguely, walking around the table toward Frank. "Gotta say, you make a damn fine old lady, detective. Or should I say, Frankie?"

Frank backed away until he hit the wall, his new body moving differently, balance shifted by the unexpected weight on his chest and the unfamiliar shape of his hips.

"Change me back," Frank demanded, though the threat in his words was undermined by his new voice.

Diesel approached, reaching out to twirl a strand of blonde hair around his finger. Frank swatted his hand away, but Diesel just chuckled.

"That's not how this works, Frankie. This is who you are now. My newest recruit." He glanced at his watch. "We should probably get going before they send in another detective who doesn't know how to keep their mouth shut. You coming?"

Frank's mind raced. This couldn't be happening. It had to be some kind of hallucination, maybe Diesel had drugged him somehow. But the reflection in the mirror, the feeling of the tight jeans against his thighs, the weight on his chest, the tickle of long hair on his shoulders all felt horrifyingly real.

"I'm still a cop," Frank insisted, though he could hear the uncertainty in his unfamiliar voice.

Diesel raised an eyebrow, gesturing to Frank's new appearance. "You sure about that? Take a good look at yourself, Frankie. You think anyone's gonna believe you're Detective Frank Moreno now? Hell, your own mother wouldn't recognize you."

Frank turned back to the mirror, staring at the stranger who looked back at him. The ridiculous leather vest. The tattoos that marked him as one of them. It was as if his entire identity had been erased and rewritten in an instant.

"But my badge, my ID..." Frank began, patting his hips only to realize his badge, gun, and wallet were gone, along with the clothes they'd been in.

"All gone," Diesel confirmed. "Just like the old you. But hey, look on the bright side, you've got a new family now. And from the looks of it, you're gonna be real popular at the clubhouse."

Frank felt sick. This had to be some kind of nightmare. But as he watched the blonde woman in the mirror touch her face in horror, mimicking his every move, the reality of the situation began to sink in.

"So what's it gonna be, Frankie?" Diesel asked, heading toward the door. "You wanna stick around and try to explain to your colleagues how the hardass detective turned into a hot biker chick? Or you wanna come with me and start your new life?"

Frank looked from Diesel to the door, to the mirror, and back again. In his mind, he was still Detective Frank Moreno, an officer of the law. But his body, his voice, everything that identified him to the world, told a different story.

The sound of footsteps in the hallway made the decision more urgent. Someone was coming, probably wondering why the interview was taking so long.

"Time's up, Frankie," Diesel said, opening the door and gesturing for him to follow. "You in or out?"

With one last desperate look at the stranger in the mirror,  Frankie made her choice, stepping into a future she never could have imagined when she walked into the interview room as a man just hours before.

As they walked out together, Diesel's arm draped possessively around her shoulders, Frankie couldn't help but wonder if there was any way back to her old life—or if Detective Frank Moreno had ceased to exist the moment she saw her new reflection in that interrogation room mirror.