Males Transforming

Here’s a directory of everything I have written.

30 Days Series

Prologue / Day 1 (Original) / Day 2 (Original) / Day 3 / Day 4

Himbo Sex (Spin Off)

Oral Series

1 (Original) / 1 (Rewrite) / 2 / 3

The Button Series

Intro / 1 (Russian Bodybuilder) / 2 (Muscle Slob) / 3 (Indian Gymrat) / 4 Scandinavian Strongman Tech Bro / 5 (Rookie Hockey Player) / 6 (Colombian Dude)

One-offs

Bienvenido a Casa (M to Latino) / Becoming Papi (M to Auston Matthews) / Cold Water (Inanimate M to Wetsuit) / New Recruits (M to Soldier + Inanimate M to Uniform) / Chronovac Twins (Twin M to Mixed Race Twins) / Papi's Gear (Inanimate M to Hockey Gear) / That Time I Became a Firefighter (M to Firefighter)

Snap Series

You push the button as soon as you get home.

How could you not? The chance to become someone new was too enticing, too exciting. 

You push your glasses up your nose. Your eyes start tearing up, either from allergies or from all of the adrenaline pumping through your veins. You feel excited, or scared. Or both.

It dawns on you that you would like to see the changes, so you quickly skid across the floor to the bathroom so you can watch in the mirror. It had only been five seconds, but you think that there should have been some kind of change. 

You flick on the bathroom light. The overhead fan whirrs into existence alongside a flickering fluorescent bulb. In the mirror you see… Your same old self. You lean closer into the mirror, thinking that maybe there are a few hairs sprouting under your nose, but no… It’s the same spotty moustache you’ve always had. 

“No ha cambiado nada. ¿Será que se dañó?” you say, your voice sounding slightly deeper. “Espera... ¿qué acabo de decir?”

You freeze, staring into the mirror. Your eyes wide as the panic hits instantly.

That's not what you meant to say.

You try again. "Yo no hablo español.”

The sentence leaves your mouth effortlessly. And this time there has been a noticeable drop in the octaves of your voice. It’s definitely deeper. And more importantly, it’s definitely in Spanish. 

In a panic, you leave the bathroom and stumble into the main room. The words for different objects in the room spill through your head. You trace your hand over top of them, reciting the words out loud. 

“Sofá. Televisor. Refrigerador. Fregadero.”

Each word becomes more and more panicked. Each word comes out in Spanish. 

You pause at a wall of books. The titles look unfamiliar to you. You recognize the letters but the words mean nothing. Your eyes scan the spines desperately, searching for something readable, but you find nothing. You open a book and thumb through the pages. Part of you recognizes it as English, but you don’t understand any of the words. 

The realization hits you like a punch to the stomach. You can't read this because you don’t know English. 

Your breathing quickens. You know English exists. You remember speaking it your entire life. You remember conversations, movies, songs, text messages, and grammar lessons in school. You remember understanding these words. But when you reach for a single English word, your mind comes back empty.

The memories are still there, but the language isn’t. It's like remembering that you once knew how to ride a bicycle while having no idea what a bicycle even is.

You continue to stare at the open book, willing the words to make sense but they don’t. Your breathing becomes shallow and tears start welling in your eyes. You shouldn’t have pressed the button. 

"¡Hablo inglés!” you yell, hoping to force English out of you. But it’s in Spanish again.

You slam the book shut, the slam echoes through the apartment.

You grab your phone from the coffee table and unlock it. The home screen looks wrong. Not because anything has changed, but because you can't read it.

Your text messages are rows of meaningless words, your email inbox is incomprehensible and social media posts blur together into unreadable nonsense.

Panic grips your chest. You know exactly what these apps are. You remember using them! You remember reading thousands upon thousands of messages but now every sentence might as well be written in code.

“¿Qué le está pasando a mi celular?” you panic out. Now you don't even notice that you’re speaking in Spanish.

A notification appears at the top of the screen and for a brief moment you hope that it's written in Spanish because maybe that'll prove what's happening.

You tap it open, opening up your texts. The message is… perfectly readable. Instantly and effortlessly. The profile picture shows a grinning man with dark skin and short, curly hair. You recognize him immediately. It’s Santiago, your gym buddy. The name arrives naturally in your brain, and with a flood of half-formed memories follows. Late-night workouts, shared spotting sessions, protein shakes after training, long conversations about life and work and girls that feel vaguely familiar.

You read the message:

¿Entrenas esta noche o qué?

And unlike the books, unlike the emails, unlike everything else in your apartment, you understand every word.

Without thinking, you begin typing.

Sí. Llegaré pronto. Llego en 15.

You freeze. You didn’t translate the sentence, you didn’t even think about the sentence: you simply wrote it.

You turn your phone off and put it down on the table. The apartment suddenly feels quiet. You steady yourself, standing in the middle of a home that is beginning to feel strange and unfamiliar. Your eyes drift across the room to the furniture, books and DVDs, everything feels wrong. 

A knot forms in your stomach. You start to feel like you don’t belong, like you’re supposed to be somewhere else. Because you don’t belong here.

You swallow hard. You know what’s going to happen next. 

“Bueno...” you whisper, the word coming out naturally. “Aquí viene.”

The first change strikes like a sledgehammer. Pain explodes through your chest. You cry out and double over as your sternum creaks violently. The sound is wet and mechanical, like metal being bent under enormous pressure. Your ribs spread apart beneath your skin. Every breath becomes deeper, heavier, as your ribcage expands.

You stagger towards the bathroom, feeling like you are about to throw up. You grab the edge of the sink and hold on for dear life.

“No…” The protest comes out in Spanish.

Heat floods through your torso and your chest surges outward. Muscle swells beneath your skin in thick, dense waves. The growth is relentless. Your shirt tightens instantly, the fabric stretching across rapidly expanding pecs.

You hear stitching begin to tear, then a seam bursts. Your entire upper body jerks as more mass piles onto your frame.

The muscles aren't forming neatly but growing aggressively and violently. Years of heavy presses, incline benches, weighted dips, and brutal workouts seem to compress themselves into seconds. Your pecs continue expanding until they dominate your upper torso.

Another pulse tears through you and your shoulders explode outward.

You scream, deep and guttural. The joints in your shoulder and chest pop one after another as your frame widens. Thick muscle ripples across your deltoids, transforming them into dense rounded masses.

The bathroom suddenly feels smaller.

Your sleeves strain desperately around rapidly thickening arms and split. The tears echo around the room as fabric rips apart from shoulder to wrist.

Fresh muscle swells through the openings, your biceps knot and expand then keep growing.

Veins rise beneath your skin. Your triceps thicken and your forearms widen.

The muscles become heavy enough that your arms no longer hang the way they used to. They naturally drift away from your sides, crowded out by the sheer size of your chest and lats.

A deep groan escapes your throat. Even your voice sounds different now: deeper, richer, more powerful.

The pressure moves downward tightening your stomach violently. The softness around your waist burns away. Hard muscle forms beneath your skin. Your abdomen hardens. Obliques sharpen. Thick slabs of muscle spread across your core.

Then your back erupts. You nearly collapse from the shock and overwhelming pressure. Your lats flare outward so quickly that your remaining shirt tears up the sides. The fabric falls away, to the ground, but you barely notice.

Your entire torso feels impossibly broad now. Heavy, dense and built.

A fresh wave crashes into your neck. You clutch your throat as thick cords of muscle form beneath the skin. Your neck expands until it nearly blends into your traps.

Pressure spreads through your cheeks and brow as the bones beneath your skin shift. Dark stubble bursts across your jawline. The hairs rapidly lengthen and thicken into a dense goatee. The recession in your hairline disappears as thick, wavy black hair pushes forward across your scalp.

Suddenly your vision goes blurry and panic shoots across your face. You blink repeatedly but the bathroom smears around you.

"¿Qué está pasando?"

You rub furiously at your eyes with a massive hand and then you realize the problem isn't your eyes, it’s your glasses. The frames sit crooked on your face now. Your widening head has bent them slightly out of shape. You pull them off and stare at them. For the first time in your life, the room remains perfectly clear with very detail of the bathroom snapping into sharp focus. You slowly fold the glasses and place them on the sink. Somehow, you already know you're never going to need them again.

You stumble closer to the mirror. The man staring back is already becoming unrecognizable.

With his enormous chest, massive shoulders, and powerful arms. And somehow the transformation still isn't finished as the biggest changes haven't even reached your lower body yet.

A strange sensation suddenly blooms deep in your hips, a tingling deep in your bones and muscles. Your breath catches and pain arrives a split second later.

“¡Mierda!" you exclaim.

Your knees buckle and catch yourself on the edge of the sink as pressure floods through your pelvis. It feels like your entire lower body is being pulled apart. Your hips pop a deep and unsettling sound as muscle fibres tighten and seize across your thighs. You cry out as your quadriceps knot beneath your skin.

The muscles aren't simply growing but being rebuilt. Years of squats, leg presses, sprint training, stair climbs and lunges. Thousands upon thousands of repetitions seem to compress themselves into a few agonizing seconds. Your thighs thicken.

The fabric of your shorts stretches, but then it also begins to change and alter. The thick grey lounge shorts you bought from Costco are restitching themselves into black thin and airy gym shorts. The hem line rises higher up your thigh, exposing your muscles and darkening skin to the light of the bathroom light. The muscles beneath your shorts become heavier, denser and stronger.

The transformation drives deeper.

Your femurs ache and pressure builds inside the bones themselves. The realization that you are getting taller sends a fresh wave of panic through your chest. The bathroom countertop slowly sinks away, the mirror lowers and the towel hanging beside the shower drops inch by inch. Or at least that's what it looks like, but you know better than that because you're rising.

The crotch of your shorts grows tighter and more constrictive as the seam rides higher. In a moment of curiosity, you stretch the elastic of your shorts open to see your cock growing thicker, longer and darker in skin tone. The tip grows wider, and new foreskin knits itself across. Dark hair spreads from your belly button down to your dick. You reach your massive hand and hold dick in your equally massive hand, sending a jolt through your entire body. You stare and hold it longer than you mean to, partly because it's shocking but mostly because it's impossible to look away.

A strange mix of excitement, pride and disbelief settles in your chest. You feel your dick start to become harder, a flood of fresh blood surging into your groin. It feels good and normal. This has always been your dick. The gentle rhythmic stroking feels good, but it does not drown out the discomfort you feel in the rest of your still changing body. 

A fresh surge of pressure floods through your hips and glutes. Your backside grows heavier, rounder, and noticeably firmer, forcing your stance wider to accommodate the new mass. The fabric of your shorts stretches taut across it, pulled tight against muscle built from years of squats, lunges, stair climbs, and endless hours in the gym. Every movement feels different now: more powerful and more grounded. You shift your balance and posture immediately as even standing still feels different. Your lower body now carries the dense strength of a man who has spent years building it.

Another crack echoes through your legs and knees straighten involuntarily. Your entire body jerks upward causing you to gasp in air. The movement feels impossible, yet it keeps happening.

Your calves swell next, and more dense muscle forms beneath the skin, hard and athletic. Fresh hair spreads across them while veins rise beneath the surface. You shift your weight and immediately notice the difference that balance has changed and your centre of gravity feels different.

Everything feels different: the bathroom feels smaller, the ceiling feels lower, the doorway feels narrower. A final pulse tears through your lower body causing you to cry out once again.

Then suddenly it's over. A silence fills the room, broken only by your own heavy breathing. 

You slowly stand upright, noticing how strange the movement feels, not because you're injured but because you're much taller.

You catch sight of yourself in the mirror again and see a broad-shouldered Colombian man staring back, one who now stands over six feet tall. And for the first time since pressing the button, the reflection doesn't look like someone you're becoming but rather like someone you've always been.

You shake your head in disbelief. “Soy yo... Camilo Vargas.”

The name is yours. It’s always been yours.

A sudden jolt shoots through your stomach, reminding you of an airplane lifting off the runway.

The bathroom vanishes and for a brief moment there is only a weightlessness void. Then your feet hit rubber flooring causing you to stumble forward. Music pounds through hidden speakers and the sharp scent of sweat, disinfectant, and warm metal fills your lungs.

Spanish voices echo around you .You look up to see rows of machines stretch across a brightly lit gym. Men and women move between benches and squat racks and televisions hang from the walls playing soccer highlights. Ceiling fans push warm air through the building.

Nobody seems surprised by your presence. Nobody is staring and nobody is questioning why you're there because as far as they're concerned, you have always been there.

Memories begin settling into place of early morning workouts, protein shakes, missed reps, personal records and all the hours spent chasing a better version of yourself. The gym doesn't feel unfamiliar but rather it feels like home.

A voice suddenly calls out from across the room. “¡Camilo!”

You turn instinctively to see grinning muscular man waves from beside a bench press. You recognize Santiago immediately, he’s been your friend for years.

“Pensé que no ibas a venir,” he says.

A smile spreads across your face before you can stop it. “No me lo perdería.”

Santiago punches you playfully on the shoulder and leads you toward the bench press. You're already comfortably warmed up from the stretches you did when you arrived at the gym. As you follow him through the weight room, your eyes drift toward a Colombian flag hanging high on the far wall. A strange warmth spreads through your chest.

Pride washes through your mind as memories begin settling into place.

Watching Colombia play soccer with your family gathered around the television. Your tío shouting at the referee from the couch while your primos squeezed together on the floor. Your tía carrying plates of food through the living room while everyone yelled over one another. Then the entire house erupting when Colombia scored, drinks spilling and people jumping to their feet as car horns sounded somewhere outside. You remember kicking a soccer ball around afterward, trying to recreate the moves of James Rodríguez. For weeks afterward, you were convinced you were going to play for the national team someday.

You remember long afternoons spent sweating under the tropical sun. Your mamá handing you a warm arepa before school while the smell of fresh coffee drifted through the house. Your papá leaving for work before sunrise and returning home exhausted but always making time to ask about your day. You drift through memories of kicking a soccer ball through the street with your hermanos until your mamá called all of you inside for dinner. Riding in the back seat with the windows down as motorcycles buzzed through crowded streets, music spilling from open windows as you walked home. Entire neighbourhoods glowing with Christmas lights in December. The memories settle comfortably into place, carrying with them a warmth and familiarity that makes it difficult to remember ever calling anywhere else home.

The memories don't arrive as strangers. They feel familiar. Comforting.

Because they're yours.

You glance at the flag again and smile. For a moment, you can't believe there was ever a time when you weren't Colombian.

A distant memory of another life flickers briefly through your mind. A different face. A different language. A different country.

The memory fades almost as quickly as it came.

You have a workout to finish. Friends waiting for you. A life waiting for you.

Santiago calls your name from across the gym. You grin and head over. Camilo Vargas has always belonged here.

“I don’t have to push it,” you say out loud to no one. “I can just leave it there and not touch it. It’s easy.”

The button sits on the table, almost daring you to press it.

Your phone buzzes in your pocket.

“Can u come in?” 

Your boss texts.

You weigh your options. The extra money would be nice, but did you really want to spend another June evening slaving away in the kitchens of Boston Pizza?

“I’ll be there in 20."

You grab your bag and head for the door. The button remains on the table behind you, but as your hand closes around the doorknob, you glance back.

It sits there. Waiting.

You tell yourself you are not going to push it. But you don't want to leave it behind.

Turning around, you walk back across the apartment and grab it. The metal feels cool in your hand. You flip it over and check the safety switch on the bottom. The lock is still engaged. There is no danger of accidentally pressing it.

At least, that's what you tell yourself.

You drop the button into your backpack, zip it shut, and leave the apartment.

-

The dining room is packed when you arrive at Boston Pizza. Every television is tuned to the Stanley Cup Final pregame show. A panel of analysts sits around a desk breaking down matchups, injuries, and predictions. You don't recognize either team, but grey and white jerseys flash across the screens as players skate through warmups on the endless sheet of white ice.

You push through the kitchen doors and are greeted by the relieved looks of the evening staff. A few of them nod when they see you.

You offer a knowing grin and disappear into the back storeroom to change.

You're not paying much attention when you unzip your backpack. You're operating entirely on muscle memory. Apron. Hat. Name tag. Uniform.

As you pull open the overstuffed bag, something slips free and tumbles onto the concrete floor. It rolls beneath a shelf and comes to rest beside a cardboard box full of green peppers.

Deep down, you already know what it is.

You sigh. ”Seriously?"

Crouching down, you reach into the shadows and grab the object. Your thumb settles naturally against the smooth red surface as you pull it free.

A quiet click echoes through the storeroom.

You freeze. When you pull the button out from beneath the shelf, your eyes immediately drop to the underside.

The hold switch isn't engaged.

For a brief second, nothing happens. Then the changes begin.

The walls of the storeroom close in around you. They dissolve and suddenly you are standing in a wide room lined with stalls and benches. A circular black-and-red logo hangs from the ceiling. A locker room.

The realization strikes immediately.

The room is empty, for now. Equipment sits neatly arranged around the perimeter while red jerseys hang from open stalls. The air smells faintly of sweat, hockey tape, and sharpened steel.

One stall beckons to you. As you step toward it, you know it belongs to you.

Your body convulses. A wave of heat rushes through your limbs. It pulses through your muscles, beneath your skin, and settles deep in your chest. Every muscle in your body tightens painfully. You stagger forward and grab the edge of a bench for support as pressure builds throughout your frame.

The change begins in your legs. A burning ache spreads through your thighs as the muscles knot and thicken beneath your skin. Your quadriceps expand first, stretching the fabric around your legs. Your calves follow, becoming harder and more defined as fresh muscle packs itself onto your frame.

Your balance shifts immediately. You feel lighter on your feet despite the added weight.

The change races upward into your hips and glutes. Dense skating muscle forms rapidly, building the powerful lower body of an elite hockey player. Every stride you've ever taken on the ice seems to carve itself into your body at once.

Your lower body feels explosive, as though you could launch yourself into a sprint at any moment.

You gasp as the transformation spreads into your torso. The softness around your stomach disappears. Lean muscle emerges across your abdomen while your chest broadens and deepens. Your shoulders roll backward as your upper body settles into the build of a professional athlete. Strength floods into your back and lats, giving your frame the broad, powerful shape familiar to hockey players.

You are stronger now. Not massive, but built for speed, balance, and power.

Your arms begin to change next. Your forearms harden, your wrists thicken, and fresh calluses form across your palms from years spent gripping a hockey stick. Veins become visible beneath your skin as your biceps and shoulders fill out with lean athletic muscle.

The pain spikes again in your neck as it thickens slightly with dense muscle. Your jaw sharpens as the remaining softness vanishes from your face. Dark hair shortens and settles into a clean athletic style. Your skin smooths and clears while years seem to melt away from your features.

Your cheekbones become more defined. Your nose straightens subtly. Bright brown eyes stare back from beneath dark brows. They carry confidence, but not arrogance. The confidence of someone whose entire life has been spent excelling at the thing he loves most.

A faint tan settles across your skin from summers spent at development camps, training facilities, and outdoor workouts. Your face looks younger now. Healthier. More energetic. The features are handsome in an effortless way, the kind that earns attention without trying.

You raise a hand to your face and freeze.

The hand looks different, with longer fingers, fresh calluses, and a few old scars scattered across the knuckles.

Even your expression feels different. You glance toward a mirror mounted beside the stall. A young man stares back.

He looks about twenty-two. His shoulders are broad but not imposing. Strong legs support a lean frame built for speed and skill. Dark hair rests neatly above bright eyes. He looks handsome, youthful, and completely unfamiliar.

For a moment you find yourself wondering who he is. Then the answer arrives with terrifying certainty.

The man in the mirror is you.

A name surfaces in your mind: Connor Nakamura.

The name feels familiar. It feels important.

You don't know why it feels right. You only know that the moment the name enters your head, something deep inside you shifts.

Your vision blurs.

The locker room around you sharpens into focus as fresh memories force their way into your mind. You remember skating before sunrise. You remember private skills coaches and summer development camps. You remember boarding schools, billet families, tournaments, draft rankings, interviews, endorsement deals, and thousands upon thousands of hours spent on the ice.

The realization sends another rush of memories crashing into your mind.

You remember hearing your name called at the NHL Draft. You remember signing your entry-level contract. You remember your first professional game. Your first NHL goal. Your first playoff series.

Most of all, you remember tonight: the morning skate, the pregame meeting, and the roar of the crowd when you stepped onto the ice for warmups before the Stanley Cup Final.

And with every memory, Connor Nakamura feels less like a stranger and more like the person you've always been.

You sit down on the stall bench and feel the familiar embrace of your hockey equipment around your body. The weight of the shoulder pads resting against your chest feels comforting. The smell of leather, sweat, and freshly sharpened steel feels familiar. The pressure of the helmet against your temples feels completely normal.

You lean an elbow against the hard pad of your hockey pants and glance down at yourself. An NHL emblem shines beneath your throat. Your gloves rest comfortably on your hands, broken in from months of practices, games, and playoff battles. Every piece of equipment feels uniquely yours.

Because it is.

You sniff and wipe a gloved hand beneath the visor of your helmet. The motion is automatic, as though you have performed it thousands of times before.

An older man wearing a suit enters the locker room and the room immediately quiets.

The coach. You know him instantly.

He delivers a short speech. Most of it washes over you. Not because it isn't important, but because your attention keeps drifting. The old memories are slipping away faster now.

The smell of pizza ovens. The heat of the kitchen. The cramped apartment. The text message from your boss. Each memory feels more distant than the last.

The coach finishes speaking and steps aside.

The team captain drops onto the bench beside you and taps your shin pad firmly with the end of his stick.

“You ready, rookie?"

A grin spreads across your face before you can stop it.

"Always."

The captain nods and rises to his feet. You follow a moment later, feeling nervous energy humming through your body.

Not fear, but excitement. This is the Stanley Cup Final. The Cup is in the building. You've walked past it twice today. A win tonight and you'll be fulfilling a childhood dream to lift Lord Stanley's Cup over your head.

And somehow, despite everything that has happened, stepping onto the ice tonight feels more natural than anything else ever has.

A chant begins somewhere across the room. Other players join in immediately. Sticks tap against the floor. Gloves smack shoulder pads. The room fills with noise and anticipation.

This is your life. This has always been your life.

You rise with the rest of the team and pull your gloves tight. The captain moves down the line, handing out high-fives and playful butt taps. When he reaches you, you lean forward and bump his helmet lightly with your own.

The tunnel waits beyond the locker room doors. The Stanley Cup Final is waiting.

And for the first time in your life, you know exactly where you belong.

snap

Absolutely. By the time I’m done with you, you’ll have guys jumping at the chance to follow your orders.

Your arms are burning. The muscle fibres are completely changing. Look at them bulging! Your shirt sleeves are stretching and tearing. Feel the pressure against your biceps as the fabric cuts into your arms. Let’s make it looser for you... Look at your shirt now. It’s digital camo. A collar is forming around your neck with two rank insignias.

Feel fabric tighten across your chest... Your pecs are swelling outward into two hard, dense slabs of muscle.

Your chest is twitching now. Those pecs are swelling bigger and denser with every heartbeat. Feel how heavy they’re getting? Your new uniform is tightening across them already. The buttons are pulling so hard they might snap right off. Good thing military uniforms are made for big men like you.

And your shoulders... Jesus. Roll them and stretch them… They’re widening so fast. Listen to those joints cracking. Music to my ears! I’ll make your whole frame is thicken into something powerful. Something dominant. Your traps are climbing up your neck while your delts round out into hard muscle caps. You’re built like a tank now.

Look at your forearms. See those thick veins pushing up beneath the skin? And what’s this? Ink. Dark black lines are spreading over your arm. A tattoo is carving itself into your skin. Mechanical. Aggressive. Masculine. It wraps perfectly around your giant bicep like you earned it years ago.

Hold on to your lunch because your stomach is going to tighten now. I’ll make sure every bit of softness is burned away. Look at that V-shape forming. Your back is going to stretch the uniform tight. Even your sleeves are rolling themselves higher. we have to show off those massive arms.

Try talking.

See? Your voice won’t come out properly anymore. Your throat is changing. Vocal cords thickening. Chest vibrating. There it is... Hear that? Deep. Authoritative. The kind of voice that makes people shut up and listen.

Just ignore the sounds of your face cracking and reshaping. I’m making your jaw wider and squarer. Feel how heavy it’s getting? I’ll sharpen your and make your brow intense. Oh plus you need the military haircut.

You can feel your whole personality shifting with it, can’t you? That uncertainty is fading away. Sit straighter. Be more confident. More commanding. Like your body expects respect now.

Let me finish that uniform. You need some heavy combat boots on your feet. And pants that pull snug around your thick thighs. One last detail… A name patch over your chest.

KING. You are officially royalty.

That feels natural, doesn’t it? Of course it does. That’s your name now.

Speaking of your uniform… Let’s make it mean something. You’re obviously military, but what branch… Hmm. How about Marines? Hoo-rah!

Here come the memories... there they come. Early morning training drills. Weight rooms full of grunting jarheads. Young recruits staring at you like they want your approval. Nights drinking with your squad while everyone else in the bar keeps glancing your way.

You’re not some awkward guy anymore. You’re the biggest, hottest man in the room, and everybody knows it.

Will you flex your arms for me. You like how huge they are now? Feel the power in that body.

Damn. Look at you, Staff Sergeant King.

snap

I’ve been watching you… Sitting on your bed in your tiny room, listening to the lifted trucks rip down the road outside. Watching all the jacked country boys at the gas station, at bonfires, leaning against fence posts in their tight dusty jeans and work boots. Their big arms, sunburnt necks and dumb grins.

And you?

You’re just the awkward guy watching from the sidelines.

I know you want it so bad. You wanna be thick, strong and stupid. You want to be a real country boy.

So let’s make it happen shall we?

Stand up for me. Yeah, strip down too. Don’t be shy. Everything you've got now won't be staying anyway. I’m gonna rebuild you from scratch. Farm-boy edition.

First thing’s first, you’re not gonna stay lanky and soft. Country boys are built solid. Wide and heavy. Like they’ve been hauling hay bales since they were twelve years old.

Feel that?

That tight pull in your shoulders? Your frame is changing already.

Let me pull out your shoulders a little, make your chest broader. Did I say a little because I meant a lot. Your waist should be thicker, don’t you think? Feel all the dense muscle in your chest get bigger. And that’s not gym muscle either! No sireee. That's the kind that’s built from lifting feed bags and wrestling busted machinery in the heat.

Ohhh yeah. That’s better.

Look down.

I’ll tighten your stomach and carve some deep abs for you too. I can’t forget your arms either! Let's stretch those biceps bigger and rounder, so the forearms are thick with heavy veins.

Does your head hurt from all the testosterone flooding your skull yet?

Hold on a second, your thighs are going to bulge out.

If you were wearing jeans, they definitely wouldn't fit anymore! Your legs are pure country-boy meat, boy. Massive quads. Thick calves. Look at those powerful hips from years of climbing tractors and working fields all day long.

And now comes the best part.

The heat in your skin will only last a minute. Say good-bye to that pale softness and hello to the rough golden tan spreading across your body. You look like you've been baked under brutal summer sun for years. I'll dust some freckles across your shoulders for good measure.

One more thing... Let me just crack your hands and roughen up those palms with callouses.

There! You look like you’ve worked hard your whole life now.

But you still need to think like you have, right?

Feel that fuzzy pressure behind your eyes? Your thoughts slowing down.

Vocabulary shrinking. Poor guy, big complicated words suddenly feel impossible to hold onto, don't they?

You try to think about politics. Nothing.

You try to remember what “metaphorical” means. Absolutely fucking gone.

Instead, let's fill your head with simpler thoughts. How's this to start:

Truck, beer, mud, gym, girls, work, dip. That's all you need!

I can tell you just love getting dumber by the second. Let that crooked grin spread across your face.

Look! Even your posture is loosening. You're feeling confident too ... dumb, cocky, effortless confidence. That's the kind that comes from never overthinking anything in your entire life.

Last little bit now... Just your face is left. Your face shifts next.

I'll square out the jaw, broaden the nose and thicken the lips. You need a messy country-boy haircut too.

Don't look a yourself just yet, put these jeans and boots on first. We'll finish the whole look. a look at yourself

Okay, now check the mirror and see the same huge, dumb farmhand I see.

You don’t care about your old life anymore. Homework. Anxiety. Weird overthinking. Gone.

Just think about those chores you have to do. Think about hitting the gym after. Maybe shotgunning some beers with the boys tonight.

Life is simple now. Simple and good.

See you never, country boy.

You sit alone in your shitty apartment, drinking shitty beer that you bought with money from your shitty job. You sigh. You have no drive. There’s nothing to push you forward. Your life is a mess and you know it.

The button sits before you. What would be the harm in pushing it? Maybe the new you would have something to live for. You look around your empty room, at the mediocre possessions you have. You squeeze the extra ring of fat around your stomach, lamenting that if only you lived closer to a gym then you could go more frequently. 

Should you push the button? Your thoughts drift to your parents, but you tell yourself they’ll get over it. 

In a swift movement, you push the button. There’s no time to feel regret or even to second guess your choice because a thought has wormed into your head. One word: grind. 

In an instant every difficult task becomes doable. You have drive now. The urge to improve, to get better, to grind and work harder.

You stand, your body a ball of jitters and energy. You instinctively prepare yourself to head to the gym before going to work. But you don’t have a shitty job. You started a tech company a decade ago, now you’re head of Denmark’s biggest tech company. Because of course you are. You live for the grind. 

Your apartment suddenly looks different around you. Larger. Cleaner. Scandinavian furniture replaces the cheap clutter piece by piece. Minimalist lighting glows softly against concrete walls. Through massive windows you see the skyline of Copenhagen stretching out beneath a cold grey morning sky.

Your body begins to change. Your pulse quickens and heat floods your body.

Your posture straightens violently with a series of pops running up your spine. Your chest expands outward as dense muscle thickens beneath your skin. The softness around your stomach tightens immediately, fat burning away as hard mass forms underneath.

Your shoulders broaden and widen. The fabric of your shirt tightens across swelling pecs and growing deltoids. Muscle surges down your arms in thick waves, veins beginning to rise beneath the skin. Your forearms grow heavy and powerful, hands widening against the expensive fabric of your sweatpants.

Grind. The word echoes again. It’s becoming a mantra.

Your thighs tense painfully. Muscle packs onto your legs with frightening density, stretching the fabric around your quads. Your calves thicken. Your stance widens naturally to support the increasing weight of your body.

You are getting bigger. And not lean either. Massive.

Your jaw tightens as rough blond stubble spreads across your face. Your neck thickens enormously, forcing your collar outward. Pale hair creeps across your powerful forearms and heavier chest. Your entire frame continues expanding upward and outward until you feel huge.

You stand well over six feet tall, broad enough to fill the room through presence alone. The floor creaks softly beneath your increasing weight. Your body feels dense now. Heavy. Built through years of deadlifts, carries, presses, and brutal discipline. Every movement radiates controlled power.

You raise a massive hand to your face, fingers brushing against the thick blond beard spreading across your jaw. The coarse hairs scratch against your calloused palm. Heavy muscles strain beneath fitted athletic clothing while pale hair creeps across your thick forearms and powerful chest. Cold blue eyes stare back at you, sharpened by years of ambition, discipline, and relentless grind.

Your breathing deepens.

Something hot spreads through your chest as your posture straightens unconsciously, your larger body settling naturally into itself. The transformation no longer feels foreign. It feels correct.

Thoughts continue to reorganize themselves. Weaknesses are identified and discarded. Excuses dissolve instantly beneath the crushing certainty that effort solves everything.

Memories flood into your mind of strongman competitions, freezing early morning training sessions, brutal deadlift sessions, years spent grinding your body into something powerful. The grind was part of your life from a young age. You’ve never stopped working for what you have. You remember hustling sleepless nights coding in cramped apartments. Years spent grinding through failures and investor meetings. Early mornings. Cold calls. Product launches. Expansion. Acquisitions. Discipline layered upon discipline until success became inevitable.

Purpose hums through your bloodstream stronger than caffeine ever could. Your massive hands flex at your sides as energy floods your body, demanding movement, demanding progress. The heavy weight of your body settles comfortably onto your joints, familiar and earned.

Grind is your daily mantra.

The old you wanted motivation. But Kasper Lund understands motivation was never real.

Discipline is real. The grind is real.

I know you are responsible for this! Turn him back! Or I’ll call the cops.

snap

You're gonna call the cops? On me? Good luck with that!

Listen to that panic in your voice.

You’ve noticed them, haven’t you?

All those hockey players showing up around town. Big guys in team jackets and backwards caps. Heavy gym bags slung over broad shoulders. Groups of them laughing too loudly outside convenience stores and coffee shops like they own the entire city.

And your best friend? He's gone, bro. He finally became what he was supposed to be. 

And honestly? Wouldn't you want to join him? I know you do... Deep down, you want to be a cocky, jacked hockey player bro just like him. 

I can already tell exactly what kind of guy you are. You're already bulging in your underwear. 

You're so tense... Too stuck inside your own head. Good thing I can fix that.

I'll start the change deep in your legs.

Feel that thick pressure building in your thighs, your muscles swelling violently beneath your jeans. Those jeans are way too tight now. Let’s get them off.

Ohhh, there we go.

Feel how heavy your legs are getting?

You need tight calves for hockey. Dense cords of muscle. Steady now. Your balance is shifting lower… I’m making you a little bit shorter, but it’ll help when you’re on the ice. Perfect for skating. 

Your hips are widening now and your core is getting tighter. Lift your shirt, go on! Feel those hard abs flattening beneath rapidly growing muscle.

So much broader now. Stronger. Built for hitting.

Your chest is thickening heavily beneath your shirt, dense athlete muscle stretching the fabric tight across your torso. Your arms swell next — forearms hardening first, then biceps, then thick hockey-player shoulders forming naturally onto your frame.

Not bodybuilder or gym rat muscle. It’s hockey muscle.

Powerful. Functional. Intimidating.

Your lungs pull in a sharp breath as the smell hits you suddenly.

Ice. Sweat. Locker rooms.

Your brain’s changing already.

You’re still trying to fight it. Don’t bother. You know you want it. 

You’re rougher now. Cockier. Go ahead, roll you shoulders roll back. Widen your stance. There you go… Let that insecurity drain out of your body. Now you stand like you own the space.

Careful now. Memories are crashing into your skull.

All those early morning practices. Team bus rides. Weight room sessions. Laughing with the boys after games. Getting stitched up after fights. College scouts watching from the stands. Every memory rewrites itself perfectly.

Your old life starts feeling distant. Small. A little embarrassing, right?

Why were you so stressed all the time? None of that mattered. But this does.

Okay, you’re ready in body and mind. Let’s get you looking the part!

I’ll stitch a long-sleeve compression shirt across your chest and stomach, hugging your newly muscular frame tightly. Looks tight. Looks good. Then let’s get some hockey gear on you!

Shin pads, socks, skates. Hockey pants, shoulder pads, elbow pads.

Finally— A dark red jersey. Number 34.

Go ahead and stare down at yourself.

You look incredible.

Big thighs. Broad chest. Strong jaw. You are the exact kind of guy you used to secretly stare at.

And the funniest part? You’re not intimidated by hockey players anymore, because now you are one.

Okay, what’s next? Practice! You’ve got practice.

Helmet on. Grab your stick. The boys are waiting for you.

“It’s a no brainer,” you think. “I have to push the button.” 

And so you do. 

Your nostrils flare and fill with strong scents. Dust, spices, and flower blooms waft through your senses, but they do nothing to hide the overpowering body odours. You look down and see a glistening layer of sweat building on your skin. You lift your pits, eyeing the thickening hair, and realize the smell is coming from you. You feel the prickling of a beard forming in. Dark, thick hair continues to spread across your body and face.

A pulse of heat rolls through your torso. Muscle tightens across your chest and shoulders. Your traps swell subtly beneath the damp fabric.

The skin on your arms darkens and the muscles broaden. Dense black hair creeps across your forearms, thickening around your wrists and climbing higher. Beneath your sleeveless vest, your chest swells subtly with hard muscle, the fabric tightening against a heavier frame. Sweat continues to gather beneath your arms. You lift one arm, catching the sharp musk pouring off your own body.

More hair prickles across your legs, across your stomach, beneath your arms. You lift one instinctively and catch the pungent smell pouring off yourself — fresh gym sweat soaked deep into your the vest after a brutal workout. A trail of hair sprouts across your stomach and down to your crotch.

Your face tingles and when you reach to your cheek you are greeted by rough stubble scratching against your fingers. It becomes thicker and fuller, rapidly filling in across your jaw and cheeks. Dense black curls spread across your head, growing heavier and messier.

You swallow, trying to remove the taste of the air from your mouth. Your stomach lurches forward as you are transported to the back of a crowded bus. You blink and look down at yourself, at your sweat soaked arms, vest and gym shorts. You feel the familiar poke of a half-empty pack of cigarettes in your pocket, your phone in the other. 

Your shoulder bumps the rain-speckled glass and you finally catch your reflection staring faintly back at you in the dark window.

You see a muscular Indian man in his twenties. Curly hair damp with sweat. A thick beard. Powerful arms shining under the flickering lights. Your government ID says “Arjun.” Tired eyes stare out into the wet streets of the city after a late-night gym session.

And somehow, horrifyingly fast, the body already feels natural.

The smell. The heat. The weight of your muscles. The exhaustion after lifting. Everything coalesces inside you.

Outside, motorcycles weave through traffic while signs smear across the rain-streaked glass.

The bus keeps rumbling toward home.

When you arrive at your stop and step off the bus, your lungs pull in the thick night air. It’s hot, humid, heavy with exhaust, spice, damp concrete, and sweat. Every smell crashes into you at once. Heat radiates from your body, making your skin prickle beneath the soaked vest clinging to your torso. The ground is still slick from a recent rain, puddles reflecting streaks of neon and passing headlights. Rainwater splashes against your feet, exposed through your worn flip-flops.

“Fuck,” you mutter.

The voice that comes out is deeper, rougher, and tinged with a thick Indian accent that already feels strangely natural in your mouth

You take out the cigarettes and light up. The first drag fills your lungs with euphoria. You flip upright a plastic stool and squat down on it, taking in the night and the smoke in your lungs. 

A motorcycle roars past. It feels like home.

Omar walked through the double glass doors of the gym. His wide, muscular thighs brushed together with each step. He scanned his barcode, ignoring the clerk behind the desk, and continued toward the changing room, stride unbroken. 

The changing room sat empty and silent. Omar tossed his bag into a locker and slammed the door shut, hard enough to echo through the room. He stepped up to the mirror and snapped a photo of himself. 

He cupped his pecs, squeezing them and pinching his nipples. He wiped his hands in his hairy pits, sniffing the aroma from his fingers. He scratched an itch against his finely sculpted beard, and quickly readjusted a few strands of his hair. He lifted his arms and flexed his muscles, feeling his dick swell slightly at the sight of himself. 

Another man walked in, short and slender, his pale skin stark against the warm olive tone of Omar’s body.

Omar pitied him. 

Their eyes met. Omar slowly licked his lips and let his gaze drift downward with a knowing look. The other man understood, drawing a nervous breath but still salivating and nodding eagerly. His hunger was obvious.

Omar turned and braced his hands against the small of his back, presenting himself with effortless confidence. The other man understood the assignment, instinctively stooping to his knees and withdrawing Omar’s cock from inside his gym shorts. 

Slurping and groaning filled the room as the other man took hold of Omar’s entire length. He moved his tongue and mouth up and down with expert precision. He used his left hand to balance on the locker room benches while cupping Omar’s balls with his right hand. Omar’s breath caught as the other man shoved the tip of Omar’s dick down his throat. The joyful ecstatic feeling of orgasm was working its way up Omar’s shaft. Heat surged through him in waves, every nerve ending sharpening as he tilted his head back and shut his eyes.

Omar gasped softly, his breathing turning uneven as pleasure tightened through his massive body. He caught the smaller man’s wrist and guided his hand towards his backside, wordless but deliberate. The man’s slim and deft fingers found purchase on Omar’s asshole, teasing it with careful precision. Omar’s shoulders tensed, his head tipping back as another wave of heat rolled through him.

A sudden motion and the man inserted his fingers into Omar. It was too much to bear. His breath hitched as tension finally snapped loose inside him, leaving him rigid and trembling for a moment before he slowly relaxed again. Omar’s thick and ropey seed spilled out from his dick releasing a muted cough from the man below as his choked back on the cum. The man swallowed, hard and fast, licking the last drops from Omar’s tip. He stood again, to meet the height of Omar and wiped his chin with the back of his hand. 

Omar offered a sly grin, grabbed his water bottle and left the locker room. Alone now, the smaller man lowered himself onto the bench, his pulse still racing. Something inside him felt strange. Heavy. Wrong.

Pain erupted through his stomach. He doubled over, clutching at his tightening abs as his body began to change. Heat flooded through him in violent waves, every muscle in his frame seizing and expanding beneath his skin. His arms thickened first, biceps swelling outward with dense new mass as veins pushed sharply along his forearms. His sleeves stretched tight against rapidly growing muscle.

A deep crack rolled through his shoulders and chest. His torso widened, pecs pushing heavily outward until the fabric clung to him like a second skin. His lats flared broader along his sides, forcing his posture wider and more dominant. Every breath came deeper now, fuller, as his ribcage expanded to contain the sheer bulk building inside him.

His abs tightened into thick slabs of muscle, each contraction carving them harder and deeper across his stomach. Heat spread through his legs next. His thighs swelled massively, quads thickening with heavy definition, power flooding into them. His calves hardened and became  sculpted muscle beneath taut skin, forcing him higher onto the balls of his feet for a moment as his entire lower body reshaped itself into something built for strength.

Warm colour spread across his skin while dark hair crawled thicker across his arms and legs. His neck thickened. His traps rose heavily beside his jaw. Then came his face.

His jaw sharpened into something heavier and more angular as his features reshaped themselves. His brow lowered slightly. His lips parted as a rough, unfamiliar breath escaped his chest. His soft brown hair darkened rapidly into thick black waves, the texture turning coarser and fuller, curling around his forehead. Even his expression changed — calmer, cockier, more self-assured.

Best of all was his mind.

Thoughts twisted and rewrote themselves beneath the surface, old instincts dissolving under waves of new desires and habits. The gym felt familiar. The weight of muscle on his frame felt right. He could already picture himself beneath the squat rack, pushing through another set while sweat rolled down his chest.

He was no longer the same man. He was Mazin.

He rolled his massive shoulders and ran a darkened hand across his hulking frame. He was huge now, easily over two hundred pounds of dense muscle. He grabbed hold of his thick pecs, flexing them beneath his palms before tracing his fingers slowly across his carved abs.

Wallah… he looked glorious.

I cant seem to get myself out of this chris bumstead, fuck i hope i end up his aussie doppelganger.

But maybe bigger, fuck and a belching slob

Bet a body like that would look good in a protein and sweat stained tank

You push the button. 

Suddenly the room dissolves around you and you find yourself in a white void. 

“Is this it?” you think. 

You wander around the blank space, thinking about the change that’s about to come. Will you be a lean and preppy businessman? Or a slim and slender acrobat? Or something else? 

A grey carpeted floor rockets upward from the white void, materializing beneath your feet with a sudden jolt.You feel the carpet between your toes. 

A bed follows, followed by a dresser and other furniture before you’re standing in a furnished bedroom. The room is upscale, neat and orderly. You can see the rest of the house through the bedroom door. A window opposite offers a view of a cityscape, but you don’t recognize the buildings. 

A sock appears on the ground. The duvet becomes crumpled and messy on the bed. Several towels dot the floor, followed by more piles of laundry. Before you know it, the neat and orderly room you were standing in has become dirty and unkempt. You wrinkle your face at the mess, fighting the urge to pick everything up and tidy the room.

But then the change begins.

Pressure swells in the bottoms of your feet. Your toes spread against the fibres of the floor as your arches thicken and widen. You smack the carpet with the balls of your feet, hoping to relieve some of the pressure. As you do, your feet grow larger with light coloured hair sprouting across the tops of them. Veins begin to rise beneath your skin. Your feet look heavier and rougher; the kind of feet planted on gym floors for hours at a time.

Then your calves tighten. You gasp as dense cords of muscle twist upward beneath the skin of your legs. The shape of your lower legs hardens dramatically with your calves ballooning outward until they strain the fabric of your socks. You stagger, stepping on a pile of clothes as your legs continue to grow.

The transformation crawls upward relentlessly, surging into your thighs.

Muscle packs onto your frame in thick waves. Your quads swell with impossible density, pushing your stance wider and throwing off your balance completely. The seams of your pants rip and stretch before splitting apart at the thighs. Hot pressure floods through your hips and glutes and your lower body becomes huge, heavy, and powerful.

But with the physical change comes something else: a dullness.

You glance around the room. Cups and plates left on the dresser. Various laundry piles. A hoodie tossed over a lamp for no reason at all. And suddenly none of it bothers you. In fact, the mess feels comfortable and more lived in.

Images pour into your mind: late-night protein-eating sessions, brutal workouts that left your legs trembling, dropping clothes on the floor because you were too exhausted after leg day to care, spending entire evenings sprawled across the couch scrolling through fitness videos while empty shaker cups accumulated around you.

“No point cleaning it now,” you mutter.

Your voice comes out deeper and thicker.

Your torso spasms violently as muscle erupts across your waist and stomach, abs carving themselves into your body with brutal definition. Your obliques sharpen while your chest lurches outward in two crushing waves of mass, pecs expanding until they dominate your upper frame. You grab the edge of the dresser as your shoulders broaden enormously, your joints popping louder and louder.

Your shirt tightens and tears, with the fabric splitting up the back as your lats flare outward. Your arms swell and your biceps thicken into massive peaks. Ropes of veins spread across your forearms. A tattoo appears slowly across your skin like ink surfacing through water.

You’re not surprised by the changes because it all feels normal and natural. Your stomach growls deeply and you realize you should probably eat something.

Your neck thickens and your beard pushes rapidly across your jawline. Hair shortens and curls slightly as your face grows broader and more ruggedly handsome. Your entire body feels absurdly heavy now, and that’s because it is: dense with muscle, warm, and constantly hungry.

The room no longer feels messy, but normal.

Your eyes drift toward the bed, spying piles of clothes everywhere, wrappers on the nightstand, and tubs of protein powder and creatine. There’s a smell of detergent mixed with sweat and protein powder hanging in the air. You recognize the cityscape you saw out the window as the skyline of Melbourne, Australia. You’ve lived here all your life. 

You lumber across the room, struggling to step over piles of laundry with your heavy gait. You barely notice the clothes and mess on the ground. You rip off the remaining tatters of clothing from your former life and pick up a pair of sweatpants from the ground. The fabric strains as you haul them over your thick thighs and heavy ass, the waistband stretching wide before snapping tight against your waist.

You rub your eyes with a brutal fist and stomp into the kitchen. From the fridge you pull out a tub of cottage cheese and a Ziplock bag of peeled boiled eggs. You shove several spoonfuls of cottage cheese into your mouth, flecks of white splattering across your bare chest and beard. Grunting softly, you wipe them away with your finger before sucking the specks into your mouth.

As you chomp down on your second hard-boiled egg, you hear your phone buzzing nearby. Glancing at the screen you see a message from your gym buddy Roy.

kris u coming tonight or what

Your massive thumb types back.

yeah mate after i eat

Swallowing down the last of the egg, you glance at yourself in the mirror. You are towering and massive. A rumble deep in your gullet rises up through your chest before escaping your mouth in a deep-throated belch.

And deep down, the last dying thoughts of the old you realize the scariest part of all: that you’re already comfortable.

You push the button, feeling your heart in your mouth as it gives a satisfying click in response. After you release it, there’s nothing else. No voiceover congratulating or condemning you. No lights to signify something is about to happen, no screen to count down the changes. The button just sits there, waiting the next press.

A high-pitched buzzing sounds in your head. You shake your head, trying to get rid of it, but it only gets louder. You smack your hand against your head, trying to rid yourself of the noise. And that’s when you notice the changes. Your hands are getting bigger, meatier, fuller, more calloused. They snap, crack and grow before your eyes. Your arms lengthen and thicken to match. Your entire torso shudders as vertebrae shift and grow, sending your frame up higher. 

Your shoulders jerk violently sideways as the bones underneath them widen. Tendons pull tight like steel cables beneath your skin. Muscle swells outward in dense, heavy slabs, stretching your sleeves until the seams groan in protest. Heat pours off your body. Your chest expands with a deep, animal grunt as thick cords of muscle spread across your pecs and traps. 

The buzzing grows, like a sharp electrical whine drilling through your skull. You stagger into the wall, breath ragged, as your neck thickens enough to make your collar feel suffocating. Sweat pours down your face in streams.

You struggle with your thickening fingers to pull your ripped shirt away from your body. Your arms press permanently against your lats now in a way that makes it impossible for you to hold them by your sides. And forget ever touching your shoulders or your upper back anymore. You’re too big for that. You take off your shirt, pulling on it to rip it more.

Then your legs buckle. Not from weakness, but from growth.

Your thighs balloon thicker, denser, with veins twisting across them as your balance shifts under your rapidly increasing weight. Your calves crack loudly, expanding until every step feels impossibly heavy against the floorboards. Hair spreads across your chest and arms. Your hands curl into massive fists almost on instinct.

You stumble toward the mirror.

The man staring back at you is enormous. You are not lean, or sculpted. But massive and brutal. You are built like a human tank.

Your jaw has thickened into something square and intimidating. Your nose looks rougher, broken once or twice maybe. A dark beard spreads heavily across your face while your buzzed hairline sharpens into a severe military cut. Even your eyes look different now — colder, calmer, strangely confident.

The buzzing stops and there’s silence.

The world around you shifts. Your room transforms into a musty old Russian gym. Memories invade your brain of living and growing up in Russia, of serving the Motherland, of drinking and lifting. Your language melts away as Russian replaces it. Your instincts, of being kind of patient give way to always lifting, and a quick temper. 

You stand there breathing heavily, towering among the weights and machines, your chest rising like a furnace. A few others exercise around you, completely unsurprised by your presence. To them, Dmitri has always belonged here. Every movement you make feels weighted with absurd power. The floor creaks softly beneath your new frame as you flex your fingers experimentally.

A massive hand suddenly clamps down onto your shoulder.

You turn your entire, enlarged body, moving with the heavy momentum of a construction vehicle and look into the thick-necked face of a fellow giant Russian lifter. His tank top hangs low beneath swollen pecs and cannonball delts. Sweat glistens through his chest hair. 

“Дмитрий, хочешь, я подстрахую тебя на жиме?” he asks in a low rumble.

Part of you insists you shouldn’t be able to understand him. But the words make perfect sense instantly, not because you translated them, but because Russian is your language now. Maybe it always has been.

“Да,” you answer automatically, your own voice emerging deeper than before. “Не трогай штангу без команды.”

The other man grins and walks away. 

Memories keep settling into place inside your skull. Memories of deadlifting in freezing warehouses, drinking vodka from plastic cups after competitions, bloody knuckles, fights and broken noses. It’s all you now. Your old life slips away into a dream that you can barely remember the details of. You know there’s a button in your gym bag, a button that could change this life if you wanted it to. But why should you when this feels like the body you were always meant to have.