Davida's Post

In keeping with the recurring theme of this website, that modern Christianity bears little resemblance to what Jesus actually taught, recent events have only reaffirmed a long, distinctly American tradition: the sanctification of hatred. Once again, we find people cloaking racism and cruelty in the language of divine will, invoking scripture to justify what should be indefensible.

It’s for this reason that I keep my distance from the term Christian. The word has been so thoroughly appropriated by the loudest, most hateful voices that to identify with it feels like complicity. I can only describe myself, at best, as a spiritual person, someone who believes in the universal moral truths that no single religion can claim ownership of. The principles attributed to Jesus, compassion, unity, humility, did not begin with him. They echo far older teachings, from Buddhism and beyond that predated what Jesus taught by hundreds of years. “Spiritual” may be a vague term, but at least it’s free of the tribalism that has hollowed out so many faiths.

What we’ve witnessed in recent years, particularly under Trump, is a familiar story with new cast members. The parallels to Hitler’s campaign of terror against Europe’s Jews are not subtle: a mobilized base, a scapegoated population, and the divine rhetoric of “purity” and “nation.” In the United States, this playbook has found a new pulpit in certain strains of American Christianity. Here, the persecution of outsiders is not just tolerated but celebrated, rationalized as the “will of God.” It is a religion that professes hospitality to strangers while applauding their expulsion.

This is not a rupture in our history but a continuation of it. During the civil-rights era, countless photographs captured white Americans marching beneath banners that declared segregation “God’s will.” Generations earlier, the same theological logic fueled the genocidal conquest of Indigenous peoples, the seizure of their lands, and the doctrine we came to call Manifest Destiny. From the Puritans onward, the American imagination has often confused divine favor with the right to dominate.

The result is a long lineage of what might be called ugly Christianity: a faith that confuses cruelty for conviction and power for piety. Today, that ugliness persists in militarized police raids tearing families apart in the dead of night, brown-skinned men and women arrested for little more than existing in the wrong place, under the wrong flag. It is a spectacle that recalls the nightmares of the 1930s, and yet many modern Christians watch it unfold with a sense of righteousness, whispering, “This is what Jesus would have wanted.”

So much for Never Again. The phrase, once a vow against repeating history’s darkest chapters, now rings hollow as those same patterns reemerge before our eyes. This is why I cannot call myself a Christian. Jesus, the historical teacher, spoke of love and unity. Christianity, as practiced by too many in power, has become a mirror image of everything he warned against.

The Puritans executed men and women who were supposed to be witches and were in league with the Devil. All in God's name. Even today,we see Christians voting for a man like Trump and condone his actions. There are a lot of parallels between Hitler and Trump. America used to be a great nation but not anymore as Trump has undermined everything and the world 🌎🌍 doesn't believe we will be there to help.

We’ve never been Jane Fonda’s biggest fan—fine, she’s a proven, powerhouse actress, granted. But my personal taste isn’t the point. What absolutely **INFURIATES** me is the decades-long, wilfully ignorant, bad-faith hammering she gets over that **"Hanoi Jane"** label.

Are you people intellectually bankrupt? Have you no capacity for context, for growth, for **basic human understanding**? The incident has been dissected, explained, and lamented by *herself* more times than anyone can count. Yet you cling to it like a security blanket, using it to drown out her entire **lifelong body of work**—a relentless, documented fight for the empowerment of American people, for human rights, for environmental justice!

What is your **actual problem** with her? Is it that she makes too much sense on the issues that actually matter? Is it that she speaks with conviction backed by decades of activism, while you’re over here taking moral and intellectual cues from **sorry for the cliché, but truly dumb blondes** and that *one* who’s tangled up with a Trump son? *That’s* your credible source? *That’s* who gets a pass?

It exposes the whole pathetic game. You’re not outraged by a mistake made in a complex, wartime moment over fifty years ago. You’re threatened by a woman of substance who never stopped using her voice for others. So you trash her. You reduce her. You fossilize her in one framed moment because engaging with her actual arguments would require something you seem to have forgotten you possess: **A BRAIN.**

**Do you even know how to use it anymore? Or is it just a decorative organ, gathering dust while you parrot lazy, decades-old smears?** Get a grip. Do better. It’s embarrassing

A boy remade, renamed, and hidden in plain sight

~EPISODE ONE~

Shin never imagined his life could fall apart inside a beauty clinic. The room smelled of hairspray and acetone. Soft pop music played just loudly enough to pretend everything was normal. The mirrors reflected back an image he did not recognise. Him, but not him. Him, but frightened. Him, but already halfway gone. He sat in a reclining chair while two stylists combed through his already long hair. They spoke Russian to each other as though he were invisible. A third woman set out trays of hair extensions and colour swatches at the counter behind him. Shin swallowed hard and tried to steady his breathing. He had agreed to this. He had signed the papers. He had nodded when the handlers told him this was necessary. But no amount of agreeing could make this feel real.

The senior stylist held up a bundle of honey toned extensions. “Longer. Softer. Something that frames his face,” she said. Her assistant nodded and brought over a darker set. Shin watched the bundles pass between them like they were discussing a mannequin. He tried to speak and his voice cracked. “Please. Can we slow down a second. I need to tell them why I am doing this.” He looked toward the two government handlers standing by the wall. Grey suits. Blank faces. Arms crossed.

The older one gave a single nod. “Tell them, Shinjiro.” Shin turned his face back to the mirror. His chest rose and fell too quickly. His reflection looked frightened in a way he had never seen before. He had escaped punishment his entire life. He could not charm or buy his way out of this. “My father made deals with the wrong people,” Shin said. “The mob wanted leverage. I am the leverage.” The stylist tightened her grip on a section of his hair and clipped it aside. “They threatened me. Apparently I was followed twice last week. The government thinks the safest place to hide me is somewhere no one would even think to look. Somewhere that men do not go.” The younger stylist pinned back another section and picked up a pair of scissors. She paused, waiting for confirmation.

Shin nodded. She began trimming. “I have to disappear as someone else,” he said. “They explained that hiding me as myself will fail. But a girl inside a strictly controlled Russian finishing college is invisible. No one checks. No one questions. No one looks twice.” The older stylist braided an extension into his natural hair, seamless and practiced. “They told me I already look halfway there,” Shin muttered. The words tasted bitter. “Clean skin. No facial hair. Soft features. Groomed. All the stupid vanity stuff I did to look hot on social media. Now it is being used for this.”

He lowered his eyes. “Turns out it makes me the perfect candidate.” One of the handlers stepped forward. “This is your safest option. You agreed to the procedures.” Shin closed his eyes. “I know.”

A nail technician took his hand without warning. She pushed back his cuticles with brisk efficiency and selected a set of almond shaped soft pink extensions. He tensed, but she did not seem to notice. “This is surreal,” Shin whispered. “You wanted to explain,” the handler reminded him.

Shin nodded again. “They are going to put me in a school for girls. An academy that trains them to be wives of oligarchs. Perfect posture. Perfect behaviour. Perfect manners. I cannot slip. Not once.” He stared at his hand as a glossy pink nail was pressed onto his index finger. “This is only the first step.” The senior stylist finished weaving in the extensions and ran her fingers through the length. It reached the middle of his back now. Thick and glossy. She lifted a vivid colour swatch from the tray. A deep, unmistakable orange.

“This one,” she said. Shin blinked. “You are joking. That is bright.” “It is feminine. It softens your features. You will suit it.” Her assistant mixed the dye bowl. The colour was shocking in the light. Warm and fiery. Shin had always kept his hair jet black. The idea of it being replaced with this radiant orange made his stomach twist. The first stroke of the dye brush dragged through his hair. Then another. Then another. The orange spread across the black like flame eating through paper. His reflection changed with every pass. His edges blurred. His presence softened. His vanity turned against him. The stylist massaged the colour in with gloved fingers.

“Better,” she murmured. “Sweet. Girlish.” He could feel the handlers watching him. He could feel his old self being painted over. The dye processed. They rinsed him. The orange tone gleamed under the salon lights. It made his face look softer. Younger. More fragile. His lips looked fuller.

His eyes looked almost gentle.

A dancer tan machine was rolled into the room next. Not subtle. Not natural. A deep glow used on performers under stage lights. The technician reached for a folded bundle. “Put these on.” Shin unfolded the bundle with numb fingers. A soft white bra. Matching panties. His heartbeat stuttered. “Why do I have to wear this?” The handler answered. “The academy checks for modest tan lines. They will expect them on every girl. You must match the pattern or you will stand out. Cameras will show the contrast if you do not look correct.” Shin wanted to refuse. He wanted to scream. Instead, he stepped behind the screen and changed quickly, staring at the wall rather than the unfamiliar clothing on his body. When he stepped back out, the room paused.

The bra fit him too well. The panties sat high on his hips. The exposed skin looked vulnerable and unrecognisable. “Arms out,” the technician said.

He obeyed. The first cold mist hit his stomach. He flinched. The spray spread rapidly, darkening his skin into a deep honey shade. Over his torso. His arms. His legs. Everywhere except the areas covered by the bra and panties. The contrast formed immediately. Sharp. Defined.

Undeniable. A girl’s tan. A dancer’s tan. Artificial and perfect. The technician inspected him. “The lines look natural. He will pass in most lighting.”

Shin stared down at himself. The pale straps across his tanned skin. The high curved contrast at his hips. The glow covering the rest of his body. He did not look like a boy with a tan. He looked like a girl with one. His mouth went dry. The makeup artist stepped in next with a brush.

“Face must match the body.” Soft bronzer. Subtle contour. Lifted brows. Glossed lips. Curled lashes. A young woman’s face emerged from the work. The handlers exchanged a glance of grim approval. The senior stylist stepped back. “He will be a convincing Svetlana.” Shin swallowed hard.

He looked at the girl in the mirror. She looked back. One of the handlers approached. “Hair, tan and face are complete. Next is wardrobe. You will travel in full presentation.” Shin turned quickly. “Travel in what?” The handler gave him a calm, final look. “In what the academy expects to see. You cannot board a plane as Shinjiro Park.” Shin felt his pulse spike.

“Then who am I supposed to travel as?” The handler pointed at the mirror. “Svetlana.” The word struck him like cold water. He could barely breathe. “You have ten minutes to prepare yourself,” the handler said. “Then we begin wardrobe.” Shin sat slowly. The girl in the mirror followed his movement. Svetlana. This was only the beginning.

The handlers escorted Shin into a brightly lit changing room. It was empty except for a bench, a mirror and two neatly arranged items on tissue paper. A silicone breastplate shaped to rise up to the jawline. A matching silicone vagina with padded hips. Both pieces matched the exact warm tan shade drying across Shin’s skin. He stopped in the doorway. The fake curves.

The smooth torso. The soft shape of a young woman’s body. All of it waiting for him. One handler picked up the breastplate and held it loosely, as if bored. “Put it on.” Shin’s humiliation sparked into anger.

“Why. Why did you make me get those stupid tan lines if this is going to cover everything anyway. You said they were necessary. You said I needed them to blend in.” The older handler raised one brow. Then shrugged. The younger handler actually smirked. “Yeah, that was never true,” he said. Shin blinked, stunned. “We just wanted to see you standing there in a bra and panties looking ridiculous,” the younger handler continued. “And those girly tan lines suit you. Seeing you stuck with them for a while is amusing.” Shin’s jaw tightened. “You lied. You humiliated me for no reason.”

“Correct,” the older handler said without the slightest shame. He dropped the breastplate onto the bench with a dull thud. “We do not get paid enough to deal with a spoiled billionaire’s brat. If we take a little satisfaction in watching you squirm, that is our bonus.” The younger one lifted the silicone vagina and hip padding pants, looked at it for a second, then tossed it at Shin’s chest. It hit him and slid to the floor.

“Get dressed,” he said flatly. “You can glare at us all you want. Those tan lines will still be there when you take everything off tonight and see them in the mirror.” Shin felt heat crawl up his neck. “So no one else will see them. Ever.”

“That is right,” the older handler said. “They are just for you. A reminder. A little dose of humility while you are alone.” Shin stared at his feet. The pale straps across his skin. The soft curves the tan emphasised. The knowledge that each night he would peel off whatever disguise they forced on him, look down, and see those delicate shapes burned into him. A private humiliation. A private echo of today. A quiet reminder he could not escape.

The younger handler kicked the breastplate slightly toward him. “Come on, Svetlana. Put it on. Or do you want help.” Shin froze at the name. His pulse jumped painfully. They were not treating him as Shin anymore. They were setting the new rules. He bent slowly and picked up the silicone vagina and hip padding pants. The silicone felt smooth and heavy. Wrong in his hands. Something built to erase him. His throat tightened. He did not look in the mirror.

He did not want to see the girl they expected him to become. The older handler leaned against the wall, arms crossed. “We do not have all day. Get moving.” Shin stepped toward the bench.

He held the fake hips and chest in shaking hands.

Shin stood in front of the bench, holding the lower suit in both hands. The silicone felt cool and unnatural, a strange weight that made his stomach twist. It was shaped to mimic the soft outline of a young woman, and seeing it this close made his throat tighten. The handlers watched without sympathy. The younger one tapped his foot. “Any day now, Svetlana.”

Shin ignored the name. Or tried to. He sat down on the bench and pulled the lower suit open. The interior was smooth and slightly powdery, designed to grip skin without slipping. He hesitated only a second before stepping into it, because delaying only made the situation worse.

The material clung the moment it touched him.

He pulled it up slowly, awkwardly, inch by inch. The silicone resisted, stretching around his legs and tightening as it reached his hips. He had to stand to get the final section over them, and the effort made him breathe harder than he expected.

The suit snapped into place with a faint suction and settled around him like a second skin. It felt wrong. Heavier in some places. Softer in others.

Moving differently when he shifted his weight.

Shin swallowed hard. The handlers did not react. They had seen this part before. The younger one finally said, “At least you look less pathetic in that than you did in those tan lines.” Shin glared at him but kept silent. The older handler pointed to the breastplate. “Next.”

Shin picked it up reluctantly. It was heavier than it looked and designed to stretch over the shoulders like a thick, flexible garment. The inside felt strangely warm from the room. He pulled it over his head. It resisted. He pushed harder.

It tugged against his arms and shoulders in a way that made his breath catch. The silicone gripped his skin as he pulled it down, smoothing itself across his torso with a slow, suffocating pressure.

Halfway down, he struggled. The older handler finally stepped forward, annoyed “Oh for the love of… lift your arms properly.” He grabbed the edge of the collar and pulled it down with a firm, practiced motion. The breastplate slid into place with a dull, final sound. Shin stumbled a step.

The handlers stepped back and looked him over.

The breastplate blended seamlessly into his newly tanned skin. The warm tan colour matched his spray exactly. His silhouette was unmistakably different now. Softer. Curved. Feminine.

The younger handler nodded with satisfaction.

“There. Now you look like someone they would let through an airport without blinking.”

Shin stared straight ahead, refusing to look at the mirror. He could feel the pressure of the silicone every time he inhaled. The padding shifted slightly when he moved. It changed how his arms hung. How his balance felt. How he occupied space. It changed everything. The older handler folded his arms. “You will get used to it. Or you will not. Does not matter. You will wear it.”

Shin clenched his fists. The younger handler tilted his head toward the mirror. “Go on. Look. You came this far.” Shin hesitated. Just one second. Two. Then he turned. The girl-shaped silhouette reflected back at him. His face. His hair. His makeup. And now a body that matched none of the things he remembered about himself.

His first instinct was to step back. His first breath came out shaky. The younger handler smirked faintly. “There she is.”

Shin looked away, pulse hammering in his throat.

The older handler clapped once. “Good. Now that the basics are on, we can move to wardrobe. You cannot fly to Moscow looking like that.” Shin stood very still. Inside the silicone, the faint warmth of the tan lines pulsed against the material.

A private reminder of the humiliation beneath the disguise. A reminder meant only for him. He took a slow breath. This was only the beginning.

The handlers guided Shin into another salon room. This one was softer, filled with ribbons, hair tools, and shelves of products meant for styling rather than transformation. A stylist approached immediately, eyes already assessing the fall of Shin’s bright orange hair. “Sit,” she said, not unkindly but with brisk authority. Shin sat.

His new silicone silhouette already made sitting feel strange. The handler had not lied: he would have to get used to this.

The stylist combed through his hair, humming something light. She separated it into neat sections with practiced ease. “We are giving you a look that matches the personality the school expects,” the older handler said. His voice carried that measured boredom Shin had begun to hate. “Their new transfer is supposed to be a pampered, Daddy’s little spoiled princess type. Rich. Cosseted. Completely dependent on her father’s money.”

The younger handler gestured to the ribbons laid out beside the stylist. “This hairstyle will help sell that impression.” Shin glared at him through the mirror. “I am not a princess.”

“You are whatever you have to be to stay alive,” the older handler replied. The stylist began weaving Shin’s orange hair into rounded, intricate buns behind each ear. Soft tendrils were pulled loose deliberately, framing his face. Two delicate strands were curled to fall along his cheeks. She trimmed the bangs into the blunt, doll-like fringe from the reference photo pinned above her station. Shin felt the humiliation sink deeper with each gentle tug. The stylist tied satin white ribbons around each bun, finishing them with careful bows.She stepped back and tilted her head, judging her work. “There. Sweet. Young. Spoiled. Perfect for the role.”

Shin looked at himself. The girl in the mirror had soft, glossy hair styled into playful buns, her bangs precise, ribbons shimmering. She looked harmless. Decorative. Helpless. Not him. Never him. But the handlers were satisfied. “Good,” the older one said. “Now for the base layer of your outfit.” He handed Shin a folded set of clothing. A simple push-up bra. Soft, ordinary panties. Shin stared at them, jaw tight. “You are joking.”

“You need the bra,” the younger handler said. “Otherwise the disguise will sag on the flight. And the panties are just underwear. Stop acting like you have never seen clothing before.” Shin’s cheeks heated. He stepped behind the screen and changed, each motion a quiet surrender. The bra pushed the breastplate into a rounder shape, lifting it slightly. It felt unfamiliar. Wrong. Like a costume he could not take off. He stepped out.

The handlers gave him a quick once-over.

“Better,” the older one said. “You are starting to match the identity on your travel papers.” The younger handler smirked. “Princess Svetlana. Exactly the type who squeals when her father buys her a new car.” Shin said nothing. He didn’t trust his voice. “Wardrobe next,” the older one said. “Then we head for the airport.”

The handlers led Shin into a final preparation room. A single outfit was laid out on a wide table, each piece pristine, winter-white and unmistakably luxurious. The younger handler gestured at it with an almost bored flick of his hand. “This is your travel wardrobe. Moscow is freezing this time of year. We need you to look the part of a wealthy girl flying home for the winter term.” Shin stared at the clothing. All of it looked soft, expensive, and deeply, painfully feminine.

The older handler tapped the first piece.

“Start with this.” The White Bodysuit…Shin picked it up reluctantly. A full-length, snow-white bodysuit made of thick, insulating fabric. High collar. Thumb holes. A zip that ran all the way to the neck. Practical. Warm. But unbearably form-fitting.He stepped behind the screen and pulled it on. It clung immediately, smoothing over the silicone suit beneath, hugging every curve the handlers had forced onto him. When he zipped it to his neck, it felt like stepping into a second skin.

He stepped out slowly. The younger handler gave a low whistle. “Yeah. That’ll sell the princess act. Rich girl athleisure. Expensive. Clean. Perfect.”

Shin flushed, jaw tightening. The older handler nodded.

“Next.” The Boots…He handed Shin the white UGG-style boots, soft and fluffy, with big ivory ribbon bows tied at the back. Cute. Innocent. Almost childish. Shin stared at them. “You expect me to wear these?”

“They are warm,” the handler said simply. “And very popular with spoiled rich girls. Put them on.” Shin slipped them on. They were obscenely comfortable. And humiliatingly adorable.

The Fluffy Wrist Warmer came next…A pair of white faux-fur wrist cuffs came next. The stylist slid them over Shin’s sleeves herself. “Fashionable. Snow bunny aesthetic,” she said, adjusting the fur until it sat evenly around his wrists. The younger handler smirked. “You look more like a decorative winter doll by the minute.”

Shin glared at him but didn’t speak.

Next the came The Down Jacket…Finally, the older handler lifted the last piece A long, blush-white maxi puffer coat with a thick faux-fur hood and a built-in elasticated belt at the waist. Perfectly tailored. Expensive. Designed to make anyone look smaller, softer, and perfectly put-together. Shin stepped into it reluctantly. The handler zipped it all the way up for him, securing it to his chin, then tightened the belt until it cinched his waist dramatically. The silhouette was unmistakable now.

A wealthy young woman. Soft. Protected. Cute.

A winter princess aesthetic from head to toe. Not Shin. Not anything close to him. Then Earmuffs

The stylist approached one last time with fluffy white heart-shaped earmuffs. “These complete the look,” she said. Shin tried to step back. “No. Absolutely not.” The younger handler sighed.

“It is cold in Russia. And your hair needs to stay neat. Stop being dramatic.” He placed the earmuffs over Shin’s styled orange buns, adjusting them until they framed his face perfectly beneath the blunt fringe. The effect was instant.

Shin looked… tiny. Cute. Rich. Completely unrecognizable. The older handler nodded with satisfaction. “You are ready.” Shin stared at his reflection in the mirror.

White ribbons.

White earmuffs.

White boots with bows.

A cinched coat.

A soft winter-princess silhouette he did not choose.

He looked like a girl who had never touched a shovel or a wrench. A girl who attended ballet lessons and spent winters on ski holidays. A girl whose father bought her anything she asked for. A girl named Svetlana. Shin swallowed hard.

The younger handler opened the door. “Let’s go, princess. Time to catch your flight.” And there was no turning back.

Shin had barely finished staring at his reflection when the younger handler stepped closer. Too close. He circled around Shin in slow, exaggerated steps, inspecting the outfit from every angle like he was judging livestock. “Wow,” he said, whistling low. “If I did not know better, I’d swear we picked up some rich little snow bunny from a mall in Manhattan.” Shin stiffened. The handler reached out and flicked the elasticated belt on Shin’s coat, making it snap lightly against his waist. “Look at this. Tiny waist. Puffy coat. Cute little boots with bows. You really are the full princess package.”

Shin swatted the handler’s hand away immediately. “Don’t touch me.” The handler smirked. “Relax. I was just checking the fit.”

He stepped behind Shin and adjusted the hood, tugging the thick faux-fur trim forward so it framed the sides of Shin’s face even more dramatically. “There,” he said. “Now you look even more like a pampered daddy’s girl on her first solo flight.” Shin turned sharply, glare sharp enough to cut. “I’m still a man. And I’m not your toy. So keep your hands off me.” The younger handler lifted both palms mockingly, pretending innocence.

“Sure. Whatever you say. But if you walk through an airport looking like that, people are going to assume you get your nails filled every week and drink peppermint lattes out of cups with your initials on them.” Shin’s face burned hot. The older handler stepped in before the argument escalated. “Enough. Both of you.” But the younger handler wasn’t quite done. He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice in a taunting way. “You better keep that hood up in Moscow. If anyone sees your face, they’ll treat you exactly like what you look like.”

Shin bristled. “And what do I look like?” The younger handler grinned. “An adorable, clueless rich girl.” Shin’s fists tightened inside his fluffy white cuffs. He had no comeback.

Because the mirror had already proven the handler right. The older handler opened the door.

“Let’s go. The car is waiting.” Shin stepped forward, every piece of the winter-princess outfit swishing, bouncing or hugging him in ways nothing he’d ever worn before had done.

The younger handler walked behind him, chuckling under his breath. “Careful on the stairs, princess. Wouldn’t want you to scuff your little bow-boots.” Shin’s ears burned. This was already unbearable. And he hadn’t even left the building yet.

The clinic’s side door opened straight into winter air. Cold bit at Shin’s cheeks, sharp and clean, and for a second he almost felt like himself. Then he looked down. White boots with little bows at the back. A long, cinched puffer coat that made his waist look ridiculously small. Fluffy cuffs around his wrists. Heart shaped earmuffs over his carefully styled hair. Right. Not himself at all. A black SUV waited at the curb, glossy and imposing, exhaust curling upward in steady waves. The younger handler jogged ahead, opened the rear door and turned back with a little half bow.

“After you, Svetlana.” Shin scowled. “Stop calling me that.” The younger handler just smiled and put a guiding hand between Shin’s shoulder blades, steering him toward the open door like he was some important client. “Careful in the boots. Wouldn’t want our little snow bunny to slip.”

The hand was light, not rough, but it made Shin’s skin crawl all the same. He yanked away and climbed into the back alone, the padded coat filling most of the seat. Sitting in it felt like wrestling a sleeping bag. The handlers got in front. The older one in the passenger seat, the younger behind the wheel. The doors locked. The SUV pulled off. Shin sat back, heart thudding, watching the clinic recede and vanish behind them.

That was it.

There was no going back for a few adjustments.

No “actually this is too much, I changed my mind.”

Whatever he was now, he was taking it with him.

The older handler half turned in his seat so he could see Shin clearly. “Listen carefully,” he said. “We have forty five minutes. Once you step out at JFK, Shinjiro Park is gone.” Shin swallowed. His throat felt dry. The older handler reached down and lifted something from the footwell. A white handbag with quilted sides and a fur trimmed opening. The kind of thing that would be photographed in a magazine next to a cup of hot chocolate. He passed it into the back. “This belongs to you.” Shin looked at it like it might bite.

“You cannot be serious.”

“Svetlana Chernova never goes anywhere without her bag,” the older man replied. “Open it. Reluctantly, Shin set it on his lap and unfastened the clasp. Inside he saw organized pockets and compartments filled with items in soft whites and pinks. A compact mirror. Tissues. A small bottle of perfume. A wallet. A cheap glossy lip balm. A pink pen. A folded packet of feminine products. A small stack of documents and cards. It looked like someone had neatly poured a stranger’s life into it. His life now.

The younger handler glanced at him through the rearview mirror, amusement dancing in his eyes.

“Looks right at home on your lap, princess.” Shin snapped the bag shut. “I am not your princess. I am not anyone’s princess.” The older handler ignored that.

“Identity first. You are now Svetlana Alexeyevna Chernova. Only daughter of Russian investor Alexei Chernova and his Asian American wife Saela Park. Spoiled, bratty, self absorbed, materialistic, hyper feminine. That is who everyone believes you are. Teachers. Staff. Students. Drivers. Cooks. Everyone.” Shin shifted under the belt of the coat, suddenly very aware of how tightly it cinched his waist. “You are kidding,” he muttered. “I am supposed to act like some cartoon of a rich girl for five years.”

“Not a cartoon,” the older handler said. “A very specific type of girl that is common in that environment. It is how you vanish. Svetlana is exactly the kind of young woman no one looks at deeply. They see the coat, the hair, the bag, the attitude. They make assumptions. Then they stop paying attention.” Shin stared at him. “So you want me to be annoying.”

“I want you to survive.” He had no answer to that.

The SUV merged onto a larger road, city lights sliding across the windows like streaks of gold. The heart shaped earmuffs muffled the engine rumble. It felt like he was in a bubble. Sealed off from everything sensible. The older handler continued. “Once you leave this vehicle, you will speak Russian. Exclusively. Svetlana understands English at a basic level, from school, but she never uses it. Your father made you learn Russian for business. Now it keeps you alive. You will use the language like you were born to it.” Shin stared at his reflection in the darkened glass. The girl looking back at him had orange hair in neat twin buns with white bows, a blunt fringe, soft make up, big eyes. She did look like she might have been born to it. Inside, everything in him bristled.

“I can’t slip into English at all?” he asked.

“You can, if you want to die,” the older handler said calmly. “Girls will gossip. Staff will listen. Strange details spread fast. You know this.” Shin pressed his head back against the seat and shut his eyes for a moment. He had grown up hearing his real father curse into phones about Russians and deals and markets. Hours of language drills had felt pointless then. Now it felt like the walls closing in. The younger handler reached an arm back suddenly. “Phone.” Shin’s eyes flew open.“What?”

“Your real phone,” the younger man said. “Hand it over.” Shin clutched his coat. “I need that.”

“You do not,” the older handler said. “Give it to him.” Grinding his teeth, Shin dug into the inside pocket and slapped the phone into the younger man’s hand. It was placed in a small lockbox between the front seats with a dull clunk. “Any backups?” the older handler asked. “Of course not,” Shin snapped. The younger handler snorted.

“I would check his coat again just in case. Rich boys always have a spare.” Shin glared at him, cheeks hot.

The older handler did not bother. Instead, he picked up another device from the console and passed it back. “Your new phone.” Shin stared.

It was an older model, chunky and slightly scratched, sealed inside a very shiny pink case with a little plastic bow attached at the corner.

“You have got to be joking.”

“It is secure, limited in function, and uninteresting,” the older handler said. “Exactly what we want. If anyone sees it, they see a young woman with a cute, slightly outdated phone. Nothing worth stealing. Nothing worth tracking.”

The younger handler grinned. “Besides, it matches your outfit.” Shin closed his fingers around it anyway. The plastic felt cheap and tacky. The bow charm brushed against his fluffy fur cuffs whenever he moved his hand. It felt like someone had condensed his humiliation into an object he had to carry.

“Identity is not just a name and a coat,” the older handler said. “It is habits. Behaviours. Expectations. You need to become Svetlana so completely that even you forget, sometimes, that she is not real.” Shin flinched at that. “What does that even mean.”

“It means,” the older handler said, counting off on his fingers, “you will act exactly like the type of girl we have described. Petulant. Rich. Self serving. You may dislike the academy, but you will accept its rules. You will let them scold you, correct you, shape you. You will complete the five year program unless we tell you otherwise.”

“ Five years,” Shin repeated slowly. The number made his insides twist. “You expect me to do this for five years.”

“If it takes that long for the threat to disappear,” the older handler said. “When it is safe, you will receive further instructions. Until then, you wake up as Svetlana and go to bed as Svetlana. You think as her; you react as her. Any hesitation, any gap, and someone will notice.” Shin looked down at the handbag in his lap. Five years carrying this stupid thing. Five years walking like this. Talking like this. Being looked at like this. The younger handler glanced back again. “On the bright side, people will treat you very well,” he said. “Everyone is polite to a rich girl in a perfect coat.” Shin shot him a look that could have set fabric on fire.

The older handler did not give him time to fire back. “Now for what is forbidden,” he said, voice cooling further. “First, you do not tell anyone you are male. Ever. You do not hint. You do not joke. You do not trust. There is no one at that school you can confide in.”

“I got that,” Shin muttered. “Loud and clear.”

“Second,” the handler continued. “You will not allow anyone to suspect you are male. That means no walking as a boy. No sudden drop into a deeper tone. No careless reaction that looks wrong on a girl’s face. You will live in close quarters with other students. If you slip, they will notice the way you stand, the way you sit, the way you use your hands.” Shin’s fingers tightened around the pink phone. He thought of himself slouching in designer hoodies, spreading his knees, laughing loud in bars. All the casual, unconscious habits he never thought about.

Now every one of them had become a weapon aimed at his own chest.

“Third,” the older handler said. “You cannot be seen in public as male. Ever. Not at the academy. Not in town. Not when running errands. The only place you may remove parts of the disguise is alone in your assigned room with the door locked and curtains closed.” Alone. Just him and the stupid tan lines that no one else would ever see. His chest tightened again. “Fourth,” the handler said. “You are cut off from the United States. You will not contact your father. You will not message friends. You will not attempt to find news about your old life beyond what we approve. Any signal that traces back from Russia to your previous surroundings gives the mob a thread to follow.”

Shin looked away, out the window, jaw clenched. Cut off. From everything. He had known, theoretically, that was part of the deal. Hearing it laid out so calmly made it feel real in a way paperwork never had. He dug his nails into the inside of his mitts.

“Fifth,” the older handler went on. “You are forbidden from entering into any romantic or intimate relationship with a woman while undercover. Svetlana is a heterosexual Russian girl. Interest in other girls would be seen as deviant or scandalous. That kind of scandal spreads fast. You will keep your distance.”

“I was not planning on dating anyone there,” Shin said sharply. “I am not going on some extended holiday. I am hiding.” The younger handler hummed under his breath.

“And with men?” Shin asked, after a beat. The question tasted bitter on his tongue.

The older handler’s eyes narrowed slightly, weighing his answer.

“With men,” he said, “you will behave like any well raised conservative girl. You are required to do or say whatever is required to maintain the illusion of Svetlana. You are required to accept any invitation. You are required to act as though you thoroughly enjoy attention.”

Shin exhaled slowly, some of the tightness in his chest loosening.

“But,” the handler added, and the tightness came rushing back, “you cannot react to male attention in a way that breaks your cover. If a boy speaks to you politely, you do not flinch like a startled animal. You respond as Svetlana would. Calm. Mildly amused. Perhaps a little bored. If a teacher comments that you are pretty, you blush, not bristle. This is social camouflage, nothing more.”

The younger handler grinned. “In short, princess, you do not have to like any of it. You just have to look like you might.” Shin stared at the back of his head.

I am never going to like any of it. Not the hair.

Not the coat. Not the phone. Not the idea that anyone might see me and think “she.” But the image of faceless men with guns stepping out of black cars flashed behind his eyes, unbidden.

The stories he had overheard of what happened when deals went wrong. When the mob felt insulted. He tightened his grip on the handbag until the leather creaked. “Fine,” he muttered. “Whatever keeps me breathing.”

“Good,” the older handler said. “Then remember the last rule. Attention is how you die. The more convincingly you are seen as just another spoiled rich girl, the safer you are. The better you play your part, the less anyone looks twice. You let the institution train you. You let it discipline you. You become, in every visible way, the best and girliest girl they have ever enrolled.” The words settled over him like a second coat. Best and girliest girl.

The SUV’s indicator clicked. They shifted lanes, following signs toward JFK. The airport lights glowed ahead, harsh against the dark winter sky.

The younger handler glanced back once more.

“You should practice the name,” he said. “Say it out loud.” Shin’s mouth felt dry. He almost said his own name just to be stubborn. Instead, he forced himself to look. In the faint reflection of the window, the girl stared back. White earmuffs. White ribbons. White coat. Soft face. “Svetlana Alexeyevna Chernova,” he said quietly, in smooth, unaccented Russian. The words slid out far too easily. The younger handler smiled.

“Perfect.” Shin looked away. His stomach knotted.

Five years, he thought. Five years of waking up as that name. Five years of everyone treating me like she is all I am. The SUV passed the last exit before the airport. Too late to change his mind.

Too late to beg to go home. Too late to be anything but what they had made him. The older handler turned back to face the front as they approached the security entrance.

“Remember,” he said. “Once you step out of this car, you do not flinch. You do not stumble. You do not hesitate. You are Svetlana Chernova. And girls like her have never had to be afraid of anything.”

Shin let out a shaky breath. I am terrified, he thought. But the car rolled to a stop all the same.