Seven Foot Two — Maarten van Dijk Enters the Room
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A story about identity, power, and the cost of becoming someone else. How a shapehifter boy running dating apps with various faces.
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"I said we're closed." Her tone carries up through the floorboards with unnatural clarity, the kind of projection that happens when someone's trying to sound calm but isn't. "You need to leave."
A man's voice responds, lower, harder to parse. Then your father's voice joins—quieter than your mother's, but you recognize the particular tension in it. The café is supposed to be in closing procedures right now. There shouldn't be anyone down there except your parents.
You're moving before you've consciously decided to, phone still in your hand as you descend the stairs. The unknown booking inquiry sits unfinished on your screen. By the time you reach the café floor, you can see them through the kitchen doorway: your mother behind the counter, your father beside her, and three men in the dining area who absolutely do not belong there.
The one in front is maybe thirty-five, white, with the particular build that comes from gym work rather than labor—shoulders broad under a leather jacket, neck thick enough to suggest he lifts heavy. His two companions flank the door, blocking the exit. One of them has a visible tattoo crawling up his neck. The café's closed sign is flipped, but the door isn't locked.
"We're just here to talk about your lease," the front man says, and his smile doesn't reach his eyes. "Your landlord sent us. There's been some... confusion about payments."
Your mother's knuckles are white where she grips the counter edge. "We paid. Two weeks ago. Check your records."
"That's what we're here to clarify," he says, taking a step closer to the counter. "See, there's additional fees now. Processing costs. Administrative overhead. Your landlord's being generous letting you stay, but he needs assurance you can handle the new terms."
Your father shifts slightly, positioning himself between your mother and the man. "How much?"
"Five thousand. This week." The man's tone is conversational, almost friendly. "Or we start talking about eviction timelines. Commercial lease violations. Health code complaints. You know how it goes."
That's when he notices you standing in the doorway. His eyes track you with the assessment of someone who's used to evaluating threats. You're nineteen, slim, wearing joggers and a t-shirt. You register as irrelevant to him within two seconds.
"Your kid?" he asks your mother without looking away from you. "He should go upstairs. Adult conversation."
Your mother's voice cracks slightly. "Aditya, go back—"
"I'm good here," you say, and your voice comes out steadier than you expected. The man in the leather jacket smiles again, and this time there's genuine amusement in it.
"Brave kid," he says. "But this doesn't concern you. We're just having a business discussion with your parents."
One of the men by the door shifts his weight, and you catch the outline of something heavy in his jacket pocket. Not a gun—probably not a gun in a restaurant shake-down—but something. The café suddenly feels very small, and your parents are standing too close to men who've clearly done this before.
You have maybe fifteen seconds before this escalates further.
You take the stairs back up two at a time, closing your bedroom door behind you with enough force that it registers downstairs. Your heart is pounding, but your hands are steady as you strip off your shirt and joggers in four efficient movements.
The transformation starts before you've consciously triggered it. Your body knows what you need right now.
Bone extends first—femurs lengthening with a sensation like deep pressure, vertebrae spacing out along your spine until the ceiling drops closer. Your shoulders broaden, clavicles widening as muscle mass floods across your chest and back in dense, heavy layers. Arms thicken until the definition becomes architectural—deltoids like carved stone, forearms corded with visible strength. Your face restructures: jaw squaring, cheekbones rising, eyes shifting to sharp grey-blue. Hair lightens from dark brown to ash-blonde, texturing with natural volume.
Clothing forms as the final layer: black tactical cargo pants, a dark grey long-sleeve shirt that fits tight across your now-massive chest and shoulders, boots that add another inch you don't need. The fabric feels real because it is real—biological matter reconfigured into textile.
Maarten van Dijk stands where Aditya stood thirty seconds ago. Seven foot two. Two hundred ninety pounds. Dutch. Calm. Immovable.
You descend the stairs again, and this time the sound of your footsteps changes everything.
Derek Costello is mid-sentence when you enter the café floor. "—not asking for much, just a little good faith—"
He stops. All three of them stop.
You have to duck slightly under the doorframe. The café ceiling, which felt normal five minutes ago, now feels oppressively low. You straighten to your full height in the dining area, and the spatial dynamic shifts so abruptly it's almost audible.
Your mother makes a small sound—shock, recognition that you've done something, though she can't possibly understand what. Your father's eyes go wide.
Derek takes an involuntary step backward. His two companions by the door shift their weight, but neither moves forward. The one with the neck tattoo—Marcus—looks at you and then at Derek, waiting for a cue that doesn't come.
"Who the fuck are you?" Derek's voice has lost its conversational ease. He's trying to sound aggressive, but he's already recalculating.
"Family," you say, and your voice comes out lower, accented—Dutch inflection coloring the vowels. "You need to leave."
"This is a private business matter—"
"No." You take two steps forward, closing the distance until you're standing directly between Derek and your parents. You don't have to do anything theatrical. Your presence does the work. "You leave now. Don't come back."
Derek's jaw tightens. He's trying to hold his ground, but his body language is betraying him—shoulders tensing, weight shifting backward. He glances at Tony, the one with the baton, but Tony isn't moving either. Tony is staring at you like he's doing trigonometry in his head and realizing the math doesn't work in his favor.
"You're making a mistake," Derek says, but it's hollow.
There's a beat where it could go either way. Then Derek exhales through his nose, turns, and walks toward the door. Marcus and Tony follow immediately, not looking back. The door closes behind them with a soft chime.
Your mother is staring at you. Your father's hand is still on her shoulder, but his expression has gone somewhere between confusion and awe.
"Aditya?" your mother says, and her voice cracks on your name.
Should we tell your mother the truth?
Reveal yourself: Transform back into Aditya in front of them
Protect the secret: Stay as Maarten, claim you're Aditya friend.
Voting ended onMar 4
