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My name is Noah, and I’m a German nurse. I’m quite reserved and often try to make everyone around me happy. I’m tall and rather slim, and I’d describe myself as clever and kind – even towards people who don’t always deserve it.

As a K-pop lover, I would absolutely love to get the 20th costume! I’ve always dreamed of being a bit like them.

The bell above the door jingles when you push it open, though it’s too faint, too brittle a sound to belong in a place like this. The Enigma Emporium feels nothing like the bright, harmless Halloween shops you’re used to. The light inside is dim, jaundiced, buzzing faintly from a cracked fluorescent tube overhead. The air smells stale, thick with dust and something like incense gone sour.

You hesitate just past the threshold, bag strap digging into your shoulder, telling yourself you should just leave. But you don’t. You never do. That’s who you are — polite, accommodating, reserved. A tall, slim German nurse, always with that soft accent and awkward smile, smoothing over rough edges for others. A people pleaser to the bone. Even with strangers. Even now, in this strange little shop.

Your eyes wander across racks sagging with costumes: cheap vampires with felt capes, polyester superheroes sagging on wire hangers. None of them are right. But then you see it — tucked in the corner, a mannequin dressed sharp and glittering.

A black bag hangs from its shoulder with a thick paper tag: #20 – K-Pop Stage Gear.

Your heart skips. You shouldn’t be this excited. You keep that part of yourself quiet, hidden. The playlists you fall asleep to, the flashy MVs you watch on low volume, admiring their choreography, their polish, their shine. If only…

“Number twenty, ja?”

The voice startles you. You turn, throat tightening, and see the man behind the counter. Wiry frame, crooked grin too wide for his face, eyes glittering with a sharpness that feels like a dare. His name tag says Grant, though it looks handwritten, rushed.

“Y-yes. Please, if it’s not too much trouble,” you manage, instinctively smoothing the German lilt in your voice, trying to sound agreeable.

Grant bends, rummages, then stands with a black drawstring bag. Bold, painted letters: 20. He slides it across the counter with a smile that feels almost mocking. “Try it on. Dressing room’s in the back. You’ll… fit right in.”

Something in the way he says it makes you shiver, but you nod anyway. You always nod.

The dressing “room” is nothing more than a sagging curtain and a cracked mirror propped on a chair. You step inside, clutching the bag, your pulse loud in your ears. You loosen the string and peek inside.

The first item glows pale in the dim light: a pair of white underwear.

Simple. Clean. A little too pristine.

You hesitate, biting your lip. This is ridiculous, you tell yourself. You should turn around. But instead, you strip off your scrubs, folding them neatly — always neat — and step into the underwear.

The fabric slides up your thighs, cool at first, then warm as it clings tighter, higher, cupping your crotch snugly, pressing your cock upward. You adjust with a nervous laugh, but the laugh cuts off.

A pressure blooms in your chest. Heat spreads through your ribs. Your breath snags, sharp.

Then it starts.

Soft at first, a blur at the edges of your thoughts. Your grandmother’s voice, her lullabies in German — gone. You blink, shake your head. Try to hum the melody, but it slips away before the first note. You picture the hospital ward, bright lights and clipped footsteps on tile. You’re there — and then you’re not. The memory collapses like paper in rain.

You grab the mirror frame, knuckles whitening. “Ich… I am Noah,” you whisper. Your accent cracks. “Noah. Nurse. Ja. Nurse.” You repeat it, like repetition can anchor you. But the words feel heavier, harder.

The underwear tightens around your hips, like it’s squeezing something out of you. You can almost feel your past dripping away, leaking from your skull, dissolving into the fabric.

You bite your lip until it bleeds, whispering again, more desperate this time: “I am… Noah?”

The cracked mirror stares back at you, and you swear the man in it already looks a little less like you.

Your breath rasps in the cramped little space. Every inhale feels too hot, too thick, like the air itself is pressing memories out of your lungs.

You clutch your temples, trying to force yourself to remember — your apartment with its tiny balcony plants, the soft German podcasts you listened to while cooking, the careful way you tied your nursing shoes each morning. But when you reach for those images, they tear like thin tissue paper, leaving nothing behind but faint outlines.

The mirror shows your face, pale and sweating. But your eyes—there’s a flicker there. Something sharper, something hungrier. You look away, but the reflection doesn’t seem to.

The underwear pinches, not just around your hips but deeper, crawling into your core, drawing something out of you. You tug at the waistband like you could peel it off and free yourself, but your hands won’t obey. They just… hover.

You swallow hard, whispering in German: “Bitte, nicht… ich… I must stop. Must—”

The words choke. The syllables slide wrong in your mouth, heavy, clumsy. You hear yourself mutter instead: “Shibal… what the fuck…” The Korean word slips out without thought, sour and foreign, and it terrifies you.

You stagger back against the wall, dizzy, your cock stiffening against the snug fabric. Not from arousal, exactly, but from some confusing, swelling charge coursing through you. Heat pools low in your gut.

You glance back into the bag, dread filling you.

Another item glints up at you: jeans.

Black, ripped at the knees, the kind of thing you’d never wear in your life. Stylish, cocky. The kind of thing idols wear, flashing their legs onstage while girls scream.

Your hand shakes as you reach for them. Every instinct says stop. But your body, always obedient, always trying to please, lifts the jeans free anyway.

The denim feels heavier than it should, like it’s waiting for your skin.

You stare at them, trembling. The underwear is already devouring pieces of you — what will happen if you slide these on?

And yet, you can’t stop.

Slowly, agonizingly, you step one leg inside.

The denim is cold at first, brushing your bare ankle like a threat. You hesitate, but your foot slides in deeper, toe wriggling through the leg hole.

Your calf tightens the moment the fabric climbs it. The muscle bulges harder than you’ve ever seen on your own body. A sharp line etches along it, like someone is carving you into something leaner, sharper.

You gasp, trying to say no—but it comes out broken, syllables colliding: “Nein, ich—ah… a-ani…” German shatters into Korean, like your tongue has forgotten which shapes it knows.

You drag the denim higher.

Your shin prickles with hair sprouting thicker, darker, coarser. It rasps against the inside of the jeans, catching like bristles on sandpaper. The sensation makes you whimper, voice deeper now, gravel cracking through the sound.

The fabric tugs over your knee, and you almost collapse. The joint crunches, twisting subtly, aligning differently. Not fragile, not delicate — stronger, built for pounding rhythms, built for speed, built for showing off.

You try to pray, but the words sputter out wrong: “Vater… abba… fuck…” Each language clashing and collapsing, until nothing feels stable in your mouth.

The jeans slide higher, hugging your thighs.

Heat blooms there instantly. Your flesh swells, firming into solid muscle, each curve of denim outlining power. You feel the fat vanish, melted away, leaving thighs made for ripping seams, for cocky wide stances in front of flashing cameras.

You shake your head, tears streaking down your cheeks, but your body keeps moving.

The denim catches under your ass, and you groan—low, guttural, alien. Your ass balloons, lifting, tightening, filling the jeans like it was made for this shape alone. The waistband digs in, emphasizing the new curve, obscene and proud.

You grab the mirror. Your reflection sneers faintly, lips twitching into a cocky smirk you don’t feel.

The jeans kiss your hips as you yank them the final inch upward. The button snaps shut like a trap.

Your pelvis grinds forward, subtly jutting in arrogance. Your cock throbs inside the denim, pressing against the zipper, obscene and insistent.

You try to speak—try to remind yourself who you are. Instead, a strangled syllable bursts out: “Hyung—ah, shit—”

Your own voice betrays you. It’s not yours anymore.

And you haven’t even touched the necklace yet.

The jeans cling to you like a verdict, the fabric stretched obscenely tight. Each breath reminds you of how swollen your legs feel, how alien your hips sit. You try to adjust, to wriggle free, but the denim bites back, cinching deeper.

You paw at the zipper, desperate, but your knuckles brush something else inside the bag.

A glint of silver.

A chain necklace, thick, heavy, gleaming with polished edges that catch the dim fluorescent light of the dressing room. It shouldn’t look so alive, but it does — pulsing faintly, as though it’s waiting for skin.

Your throat seizes. You clutch at it instinctively, as though you could guard the last piece of yourself from the inevitable. But your hand betrays you, sliding into the bag, fingertips curling around the metal.

The instant you lift it, the weight drags at your arm. Heavier than jewelry should be, like an anchor to some other life.

It’s cold. Ice-cold.

You raise it slowly, agonizingly, until it dangles before your face. The links sway, hypnotic. Each swing seems to warp your reflection in the mirror — your own frightened eyes flicker, replaced for an instant by a stranger’s dark, hungry stare.

“No,” you whisper. Your tongue tries to form German again — Ich bin— — but it cracks apart halfway through. All that comes out is a raw, broken syllable: “Nan… molla…” (I don’t know…)

The necklace trembles in your grip, but your hands keep moving, pulling it toward your bare neck.

As the first link grazes your skin, your chest seizes, your breath locking tight.

The clasp hovers, millimeters from sealing.

And you feel the heat rising in your collarbones already, the promise of what’s about to be rewritten next.

Your fingers tremble as they pull the chain higher, the weight dragging at your arms like iron shackles. The cold metal brushes your collarbone and you flinch — but your muscles don’t let go.

You try to scream, but your throat locks, breath catching like you’ve swallowed ice. The first link slides against your skin, and it burns. Not heat — but a biting cold that spreads in jagged veins, crawling upward and downward at once.

The clasp hovers at the nape of your neck. Your hands won’t obey you. They close it with a soft metallic click.

The sound is deafening.

The moment the necklace seals, your collarbones jut unnaturally, then bulk outward. The delicate frame you’ve always known thickens, each bone widening, supporting new weight. Your traps rise, cords of muscle threading into existence, and your shirtless reflection suddenly looks… broad. Too broad.

The cold rushes up your neck, seizing your throat. You claw at it, but the chain only presses tighter, snug against the pulsing veins now bulging up your skin.

Your Adam’s apple swells, bobbing hard as your voice cracks in your chest. You try to force words out: “Bitte—bitte nicht, I’m—”

But the sound splinters. The pitch crashes lower, raw gravel grinding through the syllables. By the time the word “I” leaves your lips, it’s in a stranger’s cadence — cocky, clipped, weighted with a swagger you’ve never owned.

Your shoulders shove outward, denim seams groaning as they expand. Veins rise thick over your biceps, pumping like they’ve always belonged there. Each breath widens your chest, straining with power that wasn’t yours a second ago.

Your jaw clenches, harder, squarer. The muscles along your neck rope tight, and the reflection smirks even as you weep.

You grip the chain, but the links don’t move. Instead they pulse, faint light flickering, and with every beat your mind flickers too — memories of nursing shifts, quiet podcasts, boyfriends’ faces — they snap away, replaced by flashes of cameras, sweat, girls screaming your name.

You choke, voice slipping again, the words cracked and broken: “Scheiß… ahniya… fuck, man—”

Your reflection mouths it with you — but this time, the smirk sticks.

The necklace pulses one last time, then stills. Cold. Heavy. Permanent.

You stagger forward, chest heaving, body broader, voice alien in your own mouth. And then, as if pulled by a string, your eyes fall to the next piece waiting in the bag:

The headset.

Your breath comes ragged, your chest too wide for your own lungs. The necklace still pulses against your collar, each beat like a countdown.

Your gaze drags down into the bag again. The last piece waits: a headset microphone. Sleek, black, with a thin boom curving out — the kind idols wear on stage, hands free to dance while the world screams their names.

You know if you put it on, there will be nothing left. You try to turn away. Your shoulders jerk, but your hands betray you. They lift the headset, reverent, trembling.

The padded loop brushes your temple, cold plastic against sweat-damp skin. The instant it touches, something hums — not mechanical, not electronic, but inside your skull.

You wince, crying out: “Bitte, nein, ich—”

The syllables dissolve, your tongue stumbling, your mouth fumbling the sounds. They warp mid-breath, hardening into English, then into Korean: “An… aniya… no, bro—fuck—”

The headset slides lower, hugging your head like a crown. The microphone curves along your jaw, and the metal tingles against your lips.

Snap.

The moment it locks behind your ears, the world floods with sound.

Not the dressing room — not your own panicked breathing — but crowd noise. Deafening shrieks, thousands of girls chanting a name you don’t recognize, but your chest jolts with recognition anyway. It feels like it’s yours.

Your skull aches, the bones shifting subtly, jawline squaring further, cheekbones sharpening. Sweat drips down your temple, but your reflection only grins wider, hungry for the spotlight.

Your hair lengthens, black, glossy, styled without your hands touching it. Strands fall into place, perfect, every angle made for cameras. You shake your head to dislodge it, but it only lands sexier.

Your ears tingle, cartilage reshaping, piercings punching through without pain. Small studs glint, catching the light. You never pierced your ears. You hate piercings.

But your new grin flashes pride at them, lips curling cocky.

Heat swarms down your spine, pulling your posture upright. Your stance shifts wider, chest out, cock jutted forward against the denim like you’re on stage already. Your reflection doesn’t look nervous. It flexes subtly, smirking like it knows the crowd wants to fuck it.

The noise in your head grows louder, words shaping inside the chants. A name, syllables in Korean, rolling sharp and confident. Not yours. Not even close. But your tongue moves anyway, muttering it under your breath: “Jaehyun…”

You freeze. Terror spikes — but then the thought follows, slick and automatic: That’s me. Of course it’s me.

The floodgates open.

Memories crash in.

Not of nursing shifts or boyfriends. But of years of training in mirrored studios, sweat dripping, coaches barking. Hours of choreography until your body collapsed, then dragging yourself up because you had to shine.

Crowds screaming. Fans clawing at you, begging for glances. Managers telling you to flirt harder, push the bad-boy angle, give the girls what they want.

Your heart pounds, and you feel your cock pulse with the memory of hotel hookups — not tender, not gay, but hurried, greedy, with girls who threw themselves at you because of who you are.

You moan, hand going to your crotch, denim bulging. The sound that leaves your throat is deep, husky, made for sex. Not your sound. Not anymore.

Your brain claws at scraps of old life — plants on the balcony, podcasts, soft touches, German words — but they crumble like sand. Replaced with schedules, tours, promotions, scandals, endless lust and endless arrogance.

You smirk at yourself in the mirror, headset snug against your jaw.

“Fuck… look at me, bro. Perfect.”

Your voice doesn’t even try to sound like your old one anymore. It’s cocky, thick with accent, dripping with self-satisfaction.

The chain pulses once more against your chest, sealing the last of it.

You don’t even remember the name you used to whisper in fear. Only Jaehyun, the cocky straight fuckboy idol, staring back at you, hungry for the next stage, the next girl, the next fuck.

The chants in your skull pound louder, names blending into one deafening roar. You open your mouth, desperate to beg, desperate to anchor yourself.

“Ich—”

The syllable warps, your throat grinding it down.

“Ch… ch—yeo…”

You cough, spit spraying the mirror. The German dies on your tongue, replaced with rough Korean.

“Nan… shibal… fuck, bro—”

Each word jerks, like your brain is skipping tracks, flicking between languages you don’t command anymore. English slips in, but it’s thick, lazy, slang-drenched. The kind of voice that smirks even when it says nothing.

You slap your own face, trying to wake yourself. The reflection just grins back, headset tight along your jaw.

Heat rushes down your torso, muscles twitching in waves. Each fiber locks tighter, sculpting for show. Pecs bounce involuntarily, nipples hard under the denim jacket you don’t remember putting on. You try to hold still, but your body flexes without your command, hips rocking forward.

You grab at the waistband of your jeans — trying to remind yourself of shame, of modesty. Instead, your mind floods with the memory of shoving them down in a hotel bathroom while a girl with heavy makeup slid to her knees.

You groan, shaking your head. No. That wasn’t you. That never happened.

But the image sharpens. You remember her perfume, the way she moaned “Oppa…” with her lips wrapped around your cock. Your cock twitches now, swelling against the denim, confirming it.

Other memories crumble.

Your first boyfriend’s shy smile across the café table — replaced by a gaggle of fangirls snapping secret pictures of you, whispering dirty things you knew you’d give them later.

The quiet afternoons listening to German podcasts — gone, overwritten by hours in studios, sweaty shirts clinging to your chest as you practiced body rolls for screaming crowds.

Your nursing textbooks — shredded, replaced by fashion spreads, magazine shoots, choreo notes.

Your body jerks with each overwrite, like an electric pulse. Each muscle locks tighter, confident, cocky, stage-ready.

You try again, whispering your old name. It crumbles in your mouth. Syllables scatter, unpronounceable. All that comes out is a low, cocky chuckle:

“Jaehyun… yeah, that’s me, bro.”

Your reflection mouths it with you, headset gleaming. The crowd roars louder in your head, screaming it back. Jaehyun. Jaehyun. Jaehyun.

You can’t remember the old name anymore.

You flex, abs tightening, hips shifting to a swaggering angle. Your tongue lolls, tasting the mic against your lip.

And for the first time, it feels good. It feels right.

The last muscle twitch locks into place. The last gay memory burns away.

All that’s left is Jaehyun — cocky, straight, fuckboy KPop idol.