#racetf

The quiet lot filled with the deep, uneven thunder of exhaust pipes igniting in sequence. Marcus’s bike first, then Caleb’s, then Eli’s. The sound rolled across the gravel and into Michael’s chest like distant thunder.

He swung his leg over the seat of his own bike without thinking.

The motion felt natural now—one smooth movement as his boot cleared the saddle and his weight settled down into the seat. His hands fell automatically to the grips, fingers wrapping around rubber worn smooth by years of use. The leather vest pulled slightly across his chest as he leaned forward.

The machine vibrated beneath him as the engine turned.

The first pulse of it startled him.

Not the noise.

The feeling.

The entire motorcycle hummed with contained power, the vibration traveling through the seat, through the frame, into his hips and thighs. His body reacted instantly, settling deeper against the saddle as if welcoming the sensation.

It was physical in a way he hadn’t experienced before

Alive.

The pipes roared again as someone revved slightly ahead of him. The vibration intensified for a moment, rolling through the machine and into him. He felt it along his legs, through the thick denim and leather chaps, deep into his hips and lower body.

His testicles shifted subtly with the motion of the bike beneath him, the constant low vibration carrying through the seat. The sensation was strange—new, undeniable—something his mind registered with a brief flicker of surprise before his body simply absorbed it as part of the ride.

This body liked it. The engine idled roughly beneath him, powerful but steady.

Caleb looked back once and gave a small nod.

Michael responded instinctively, easing the clutch without needing to think about the motion. The bike rolled forward smoothly, joining the line as they pulled out onto the road together.

Wind met them immediately.

It pushed through his hair first, lifting the longer strands away from his forehead. He felt it rush through his beard and mustache, the coarse hairs shifting against his lips and cheeks. The sensation was constant now, the wind threading through the thickness of it as they gained speed.

He leaned into the bike without thinking.

The road curved and his body responded before his mind could analyze it—shoulders angling slightly, hips shifting in the saddle, hands steady on the bars. The machine obeyed the smallest movements.

It felt effortless. That realization unsettled him as much as it impressed him. I’ve never done this before, he thought. And yet his body rode like it had done it for decades. They picked up speed as the road opened ahead of them.

The vibration deepened as the engine climbed, a steady mechanical pulse beneath him. It traveled through the frame and into his core, into the muscles of his legs and lower body. His body absorbed it naturally, responding with the same grounded calm it had shown all afternoon.

The wind grew louder.

His hair whipped back from his forehead, his beard shifting against his jaw as the air pushed through it.

He glanced down briefly.

The tattoos on his forearms flexed as his hands worked the throttle and clutch without conscious thought. The rings on his fingers caught flashes of light as they moved. Everything about the image felt foreign and yet increasingly natural.

The road stretched ahead. The men rode in a loose line, engines rumbling in rhythm with one another. No one rushed. No one broke formation.

They moved together. For the first time since the swap, Michael’s mind had space to wander. The road required just enough attention that his thoughts could drift without panic.

What if this is permanent?

The question returned quietly.

The Hamptons felt impossibly far away now. His house. His husband. His life.

What was happening there right now? Was someone wearing his face? Speaking in his voice? Sitting in his kitchen with his phone in their pocket?

A chill moved through him that had nothing to do with the wind.

How do I get back?

The question had no answer.

He shifted slightly in the saddle as the road curved again. The bike responded instantly, leaning with him in smooth cooperation. His body flowed with the motion, muscles adjusting automatically.

The machine and the body understood each other.

That fact both fascinated and frightened him.

The wind rushed through his hair again as they accelerated.

His mustache brushed his upper lip with every breath.

The beard moved along his jaw.

The rings on his fingers glinted faintly as his hands worked the controls.

He rode.

Still trapped.

Still confused.

But no longer entirely disconnected from the man everyone around him believed he was.

The road opened up ahead of them as the pack settled into a steady formation, engines rumbling in a deep, rolling harmony that vibrated through the asphalt and up into Michael’s body. The motorcycle beneath him felt less like a machine and more like an extension of him now. The seat pressed firmly against his hips while the powerful rhythm of the engine traveled through the frame, through the leather and denim, and into the base of his spine. Every pulse of the pipes sent a low mechanical tremor through the saddle, through his thighs, and deeper still into the sensitive weight between his legs. The sensation surprised him at first, the subtle vibration reaching his testicles in a way that made his body react with a faint surge of awareness that bordered on excitement. It was not something his old body would have noticed or responded to, but this one did, absorbing the sensation like part of the ride itself. The motorcycle growled beneath him as he rolled the throttle slightly, and his body responded with a quiet satisfaction he couldn’t deny.

The wind cut across the road and rushed over him as they picked up speed. His longer hair whipped back behind his head, strands brushing the collar of his leather vest and lifting away from his neck. The beard moved with the airflow, the coarse hairs shifting against his jaw, while his thick mustache bent and flickered against his upper lip every time he exhaled. The wind threaded through the hair on his arms as well, moving across the tattoos that wrapped his forearms and biceps. His hands remained steady on the grips, rings catching brief flashes of sunlight as they moved with the throttle and clutch. Every motion felt natural now, the machine responding instantly to the smallest shifts of his body.

He leaned slightly into a curve without thinking. The bike angled smoothly beneath him and his weight followed it automatically, hips and shoulders moving together in a fluid motion that felt practiced. The confidence in the movement startled him again. He had never ridden a motorcycle in his life. Yet his body handled the machine with ease, adjusting pressure on the bars and throttle instinctively while the tires traced the arc of the road.

For the first time since the transformation, his mind had space to wander.

The roar of the engines around him created a cocoon of sound that drowned out everything else. The road required just enough attention that panic couldn’t fully take over. His thoughts drifted between the rhythm of the ride and the reality pressing in on him.

Am I stuck like this?

The question had been lurking beneath every moment since the swap, but the motion of the ride forced him to face it directly. His old life felt impossibly far away now. Just hours ago he had been standing in a kitchen in the Hamptons with plans for the day, a quiet morning with his husband, coffee on the counter, sunlight through the windows of the house he had worked years to build a life inside.

Now he was riding down an open road surrounded by men who called him Rook.

His chest tightened slightly as the thought surfaced again. What was happening back there right now? Was someone living inside his body the same way he was trapped in this one? Was someone speaking in his voice, answering his phone, sitting across from the man he loved as if nothing had happened?

The wind pushed harder against his face as they accelerated, and the sensation snapped his attention back to the present moment.

His hands shifted slightly on the grips and he glanced down for a second, studying the tattoos that stretched along his forearms. The ink moved with the flex of his muscles, lines and shapes that meant something to the man whose body he occupied. His rings flashed again in the sunlight as his fingers adjusted the throttle. He lifted one hand briefly, flexing it before returning it to the grip, studying the thickness of the knuckles, the weight of the metal bands, the faint grease still caught along the edges of his nails from working on the bike earlier.

He ran his tongue across his teeth, still tasting the faint bitterness of the cigar he had finished before they left.

The bike surged forward slightly as the road straightened. His body leaned lower over the tank, wind tearing through his hair and beard while the motorcycle settled into a deeper, smoother rhythm. The vibration returned again through the seat and frame, pulsing through his hips and legs in a way that made his body respond with another quiet surge of sensation.

This body loved the ride.

Michael realized that with a strange mix of awe and discomfort. The man he had become—Rook—did not just ride motorcycles. He belonged on one. Every nerve in this body seemed to wake up when the engine roared and the road stretched ahead.

Yet even as the ride filled his senses, his mind continued searching for answers.

How do I get out of this?

The question repeated itself silently. How long does this last?

And the most frightening possibility of all settled quietly at the edge of his thoughts as the road stretched farther ahead.

What if it never ends?

“What does it mean to truly inhabit the identity you study?”

Nobody had an answer.

But Jeremy Sloan couldn’t stop thinking about it.

He was twenty-eight. Average build. Pale. With fine, light brown hair that barely held a part. He wore thrifted sweaters, walked with a slight stoop, and had a softness to him that made him nearly invisible in crowds. He came from Connecticut stock—white, old, Protestant—and his dissertation, “Perceptions of Threat: Black Masculinity in White Suburban Spaces,” had just enough edge to raise eyebrows, earn nods.

But the truth?

He didn’t feel like he was writing from experience. He felt like he was writing around it.

And something in him began to itch—restless and relentless. He didn’t want to observe anymore. He wanted to be in it.

So in mid-June, Jeremy quietly vanished from Columbia’s campus. He claimed he’d be off the grid for a writing residency in upstate New York. In reality, he boarded a bus to Montréal, where a discreet dermatology clinic agreed—no questions asked—to administer a course of high-dose eumelanin-stimulating injections, originally designed for vitiligo patients and burn victims.

He wanted full pigmentation. No half-measures.

The changes began subtly. He checked himself in the mirror every morning, stripping off his clothes and standing in front of the fogged glass, hands on hips. A light golden tone spread slowly over his chest and arms, deepening with each dose. His skin began to hold light differently—less reflective, more absorbing. A faint burn tingled beneath the surface, like something was waking up.

The first time he noticed his thighs darkening, he sat on the edge of the bed for fifteen minutes, legs splayed, hands resting on his knees.

“Shit,” he whispered. “It’s really happening.”

His groin followed. The pale pink of his shaft darkened gradually to a milk-chocolate brown, then deeper. His testicles, once soft and almost translucent, tightened into a smooth, leathery heaviness. The skin looked foreign. But not fake.

He touched himself slowly, brushing his fingertips down his inner thigh to the newly darkened root of his cock. It felt warm. Dense.

“This… this is mine now,” he murmured. “I’m changing everywhere.”

By week two, Jeremy’s skin had deepened from a sandy beige to a shade just past tan. The clinical trial team, a mix of ambitious postdocs and clinicians with clipboard eyes, logged the pigmentation shifts as expected. They didn’t ask why he kept scheduling his check-ins in dimmer lighting. Jeremy wore long sleeves to the lab. Claimed it was a sensitivity thing. But in truth, he was hiding how far the change had gone—faster than their models predicted.

He looked at himself in the mirror each morning with a curiosity that bordered on obsession. The first time his chest took on the warm, sepia hue of baked earth, he just stood there staring at it. “That can’t be me,” he muttered aloud. He lifted his arm and watched the underarm darken as well—no tan line, no fading. It wasn’t cosmetic. It was him.

Jeremy had always had dark, thick hair—black Irish, his mother used to say, with a dismissive wave. But now it framed his changing face in sharper contrast. He hadn’t shaved since week one, letting nature try. At first it was pathetic: wisps above the lip, shadow on the chin like dirt smudged from a glove. But by week four, the hair above his lip had formed a modest but credible mustache. Chin hairs thickened—still sparse, still patchy, but present.

He leaned in close to the mirror that Friday night of week four, shirt off, palm pressed against his lower belly. His body had started to shift subtly—he wasn’t sure if it was the hormone modulator in the injection or just the power of being perceived differently. His pecs looked fuller. His nipples darker. Even down below… things seemed darker too. The shaft, once pale and pink-hued, now carried a brown tone that startled him. “Fuck,” he whispered, gripping himself. “It’s real.”

The texture of his skin had changed. What once felt smooth and sun-sensitive now had a softness—no, a suppleness—to it. A low hum of warmth lived in his limbs, his torso. Each night, he ran his fingers along his chest, his hips, down his legs like a map he was memorizing. This was still Jeremy. But something ancient was being layered on top.

By week five, he walked differently.

Not because anyone had taught him how—he was studying this in silence, watching men on the subway, in the coffee shop, in Harlem where he now spent his weekends sitting outside of barbershops or diners. He paid attention to how Black men moved. How they took space. How they greeted each other. Head nods, slight lean-ins, the rhythm in their gait. He practiced them when he thought no one could see.

That was the week he went to the salon—nervous, sweating, but determined. The stylist, a Dominican woman with long acrylics and a skeptical smile, was the only one who asked why someone like him wanted curls like that. “You sure you don’t want looser ones? More natural on your face maybe?” she’d asked, eyeing his jawline.

Jeremy shrugged. “Tighter the better. Like… tight tight. I want it to grow out into a real shape.”

She raised a brow but said nothing more. When she was done, he left with a tightly curled mini Afro that shifted the shape of his face, softened it. Made his forehead smaller. Made his features, newly darkened, blend into a face he could no longer describe with his old words.

But it was week six when the real shift came.

That morning, Jeremy stepped out of the subway and looked into the barbershop window in Harlem. He saw himself. He was wearing a hoodie and jeans, but the curls—now fully fluffed—framed his head with an assertive presence. His beard was scraggly but visible. His skin, now a soft mahogany, reflected sunlight like he’d been born under a stronger sun.

As he stepped inside, the smells of clove oil, pomade, and aftershave wrapped around him. The clippers buzzed like bees. No one looked twice.

“Whatchu need, youngblood?” the barber asked from his station. Mid-40s, bald, with tattoos visible under his short-sleeved Henley.

Jeremy hesitated. “Figured it was time for a shape-up,” he said carefully, sitting down. He let his fingers rake through his tight curls. “And maybe something to help with all this… fuzz.”

The barber smirked. “You ain’t got a full beard, but you got somethin’ to work with.”

Jeremy laughed, nervously. “I’ve never really grown one out before.”

The barber ran a comb along his jaw. “Mmhmm. You got them stubborn cheek patches, but this ‘stache comin’ in nice. Chin too. I could edge it. Give you a clean goatee, fade it sharp, let that ‘fro do its thing. You let it puff out more, or you tryna keep it cropped?”

“I want it cropped but shaped right,” Jeremy replied. “Like it belongs.”

The barber nodded slowly, eyes thoughtful. “I got you. We’ll edge that goatee, trim the stache, and clean up your neckline. This your first real cut?”

Jeremy swallowed. “Yeah.”

He didn’t say it was because he didn’t recognize himself before. He didn’t say he hadn’t dared walk into a space like this because even he wasn’t sure what the hell he was becoming.

When the cut was done, Jeremy looked in the mirror and exhaled sharply. It was him. But not him. Or maybe it had always been waiting underneath.

As he walked down 125th, people passed him differently. A man nodded at him. A woman with long braids smirked and said, “Alright then, I see you.” Jeremy smiled back automatically, surprised by how good it felt. How terrifying. How… natural.

The clothes he wore—blue jeans, an old white tee—suddenly looked wrong. Too fitted in the wrong places. Too tight where it shouldn’t be, too thin in the fabric. He ducked into a small streetwear boutique off Lenox and started browsing.

Baggy jeans. Looser cuts. Thicker fabrics. Shirts with bold designs. Jewelry. Gold chain. Cuban links. Rings.

He picked up a pair of briefs—size up. Tried them on in the fitting room.

“Shit,” he whispered, checking himself in the mirror. The new boxers fit differently. Held him differently. Made everything look more… assertive. His body looked bigger now, not from mass but presence. The darker skin, the cut of the hair, even the shadow of facial hair—it all gave him dimension.

He added two button-ups. A new cologne. A gold watch.

Back at home, he stood in front of the mirror shirtless, newly lined up, boxers hugging his hips. He reached up and touched his chin.

“Damn,” he said, almost whispering. “Is this what it feels like… to be looked at different? To look at myself different?”

He hadn’t answered the last email from the research team.

He didn’t plan to. Not yet. They were asking for new photos

He closed his laptop.

He’d send them what he wanted them to see.

Malik sat in the waiting room of the medspa, the chill of the AC brushing against his jawline. The receptionist had handed him a clipboard to sign—“Malik Sanders,” printed in bold at the top. It still looked foreign, but not wrong. Like something halfway between who he’d been and who he needed to become.

The woman across from him scrolled through her phone, lips full and plush, cheeks softly contoured. It wasn’t just vanity—it was armor. Identity. Presence.

He glanced up as the injector stepped into the waiting room. Young, white, chipper.

“Malik?”

He stood, smoothing his shirt. His walk was heavier now, more rooted since the perm and the new wardrobe. He felt himself inhabiting his body more with each week, shedding the last traces of Jeremy like dead skin.

In the chair, the injector asked lightly, “And what are we doing today?”

He looked at himself in the handheld mirror. The perm framed his face well—tight curls, shaped to perfection from last week’s barber visit. But his lips…

“Filler,” he said simply, then pointed. “Just here. Bottom lip mostly. Need it to match my face.”

The injector nodded. “You’ve got good shape already. We’ll just enhance volume and balance the ratio. Keep everything masculine.”

He didn’t say anything, but he nodded once.

The needle prick was fast, clean. Cool. He didn’t flinch, but his hand curled slightly around the edge of the chair. The gel entered slowly, creating a swelling pressure beneath the skin. He could feel the shape changing, the filler spreading and settling—altering the curves he saw reflected in the mirror.

It wasn’t painful. Just… intimate. Like something private was being rewritten.

The injector tapped his chin, inspecting. “Let’s add just a touch on the sides. You’ve got that wide smile, so it’ll frame better.”

More injections. More slow pushing. His skin responded quickly—stretching, embracing the volume, molding to the new silhouette.

After fifteen minutes, she handed him the mirror.

He blinked.

The lips staring back at him weren’t subtle. They didn’t whisper. They spoke. Thick, smooth, just enough shadow now that his beard grew around them naturally. The bottom lip sat fuller, like it weighed something. Like it had lived through things. And the top—rounded, flatter in the middle, deepened his expression into something unreadable but magnetic.

He opened his mouth slightly. Closed it again.

The new lips adjusted the entire tone of his face. Softer, but not weak. Sensual, but firm. His voice sounded thicker when he finally murmured, “Yeah. That’s it.”

He paid in cash. No ID swipe. The receptionist didn’t ask questions.

In the car, he sat in the lot with the visor mirror flipped down. Watched himself talk. Try on new sentences. Pursed. Smiled. Looked serious. Said his name:

“Malik J. Sanders.”

Said it again. Slower.

“Malik.”

He smiled without thinking. It fit now. His face knew the name before his mouth even did.

School started next week.

Tomorrow he’d go pick up his student ID and take his new photo. He already knew what shirt he was wearing—the black polo with the collar popped and the chain just visible underneath.

The lips sealed it.

He wasn’t trying anymore.

He was.

He leaned closer to the mirror, mouth slightly parted now, watching how the fullness of his lips seemed to catch the light, casting subtle shadows beneath the top curve. His tongue darted out again, tracing the contour, letting the wetness highlight just how plump they were.

“Goddamn…” he murmured, running a finger across the swollen line of his bottom lip. “These are DSLs for real…”

The words came out low, slow, thick with something new—like he knew it before he said it. Dick sucking lips. The kind that made people stare without even realizing it. The kind that made silence feel sexual.

He said it again, louder this time. “Straight-up DSLs. Shit.”

He puffed them out, exaggerating for a second, and then let them fall back into their new, natural shape—round, soft, full of promise.

No wonder he couldn’t stop touching them. There was something obscene about how perfect they looked. His lips had always been average—forgettable. But now? Now they spoke before he even opened his mouth.

“Somebody’s gonna see these and know,” he said under his breath, letting his voice fall into a lazy drawl. “Ain’t even gonna need to say nothin’. Just look at me.”

He twisted his face into a playful smirk, lips slightly pursed.

“Man… these lips look like they beg for somethin’ long and thick.”

He chuckled, and even that sound felt different—more dangerous, more sure. He tapped his fingers along the edge of his mouth again, gently. Every touch sparked something deeper.

“I ain’t just got new lips,” he whispered. “I got a whole new energy.”

It wasn’t just the mirror anymore—it was the way the world mirrored him back.

Jeremy—no, Malik now—stepped out into the morning sun, the light kissing his skin with the kind of warmth that once felt foreign, now oddly familiar. His deepened skin tone soaked in the rays, glowing bronze-brown where just two months ago he’d been pale and freckled. Now? There was depth. There was gravity. There was presence.

As he walked past the café windows lining the street, he caught his reflection again, not by choice but out of habit. A passing glance became a full inspection. His tapered afro caught the light, thick curls with a soft shine from the leave-in he’d learned to apply in the mornings after a light spritz. His temples were neatly edged from Saturday’s barber visit, his mustache now symmetrical, trimmed with a precision he was still learning to maintain at home. The goatee was still modest, but the hair along his chin grew in coarse and dark, giving him something to work with. Not much, but enough to give shape to his face in a way that made him nod a little each morning in approval. It was his now. His effort. His mirror. His identity.

He walked with a subtle sway—unintended, but part of his new confidence. Pants sat looser on his waist than before, and he let them sag just enough to show the waistband of his boxer-briefs, now always a size large. He adjusted them sometimes with a casual tug, like he’d seen other guys do, arms slightly out to the side, exuding a low-effort coolness. Before, he would’ve tightened his belt, worried about neatness. Now, he knew it was more about rhythm. Flow. Ease.

As he walked down Laney Boulevard, people nodded to him. A woman in chunky hoops gave him an up-down look and smiled. He licked his lips instinctively—he did that a lot these days, these lips that still surprised him with how plush and full they were. The filler hadn’t just added volume, it had reshaped his mouth entirely. When he spoke, he could feel the new weight of them, the way they flexed and stretched over his words. When he drank his coffee, he noticed the way the warmth lingered longer along the rim of his lips. Even eating was different—biting into a sandwich meant accounting for the cushion of those lips, and sometimes a small, messy smear of sauce would catch in the corners. He’d wipe it away slow, careful not to smudge, using the back of his hand just like he’d seen others do.

“They’re real DSL now,” he’d said to himself one morning, standing in the mirror and gently puckering them, watching their shape. “Thick as hell.”

When he said the words out loud, his voice still caught him off guard. There was bass in it, deeper than before. The resonance traveled through his chest when he spoke, a weight that hadn’t existed in his old vocal cords. It made him want to talk more. Lower. Slower. He’d even caught himself doing that little nasal drag in certain words, imitating voices he heard in the barbershop, letting syllables stretch and flex.

At the crosswalk, two men passed him and gave him a quick nod of approval—the kind you only get when you’re seen as part of something. A cultural moment. A look. A rhythm. One of them even commented, “Fresh fade, bro,” and Malik just grinned.

“Appreciate you, man,” he replied, the words sliding out naturally.

He arrived on campus just as orientation groups were forming. A few heads turned. His profile was strong—dark skin smooth from daily shea butter, tight curls haloing his head, a gold stud in one ear, a Cuban chain hanging loose on his chest over a soft black tee. His jeans sagged just enough to show his drawstring boxers and his walk was relaxed, shoulders broad from the mild gains he’d picked up from daily pushups he’d started doing at night before bed.

He didn’t even realize he was smiling as he walked past a group of new students. They stared—not in confusion, but curiosity. And interest. One guy even whispered, “Damn,” under his breath as Malik passed, the sound brushing the edges of Malik’s awareness and blooming into pride in his chest.

This was his body now. These lips. This voice. This presence.

And as the sunlight hit his skin again, he didn’t flinch or question. He let it rest there, like it had always belonged.

The sun burned low over the edge of the city as Jahlil pushed the door open to Legacy Cuts. This wasn’t the trendy downtown shop with jazz music playing low and mirrors framed in gold. No—this place was louder, fuller, and smelled like clove oil, sweat, pomade, and pride. Four chairs, four barbers, and nearly a dozen men already waiting or hanging around, arguing over the game last night or the city council’s latest mess.

All of them Black. Every one of them looked up when the bell rang, and Jahlil hesitated for a split second before stepping in. His new Jordans squeaked slightly on the worn tile floor. Someone gave a low, approving whistle when they caught sight of his fade.

“Damn, boy stay lookin’ crispy,” someone near the door muttered, half to himself, half to the others. Another man—older, with long salt-and-pepper dreads—nodded in agreement and tipped his chin.

“You lookin’ for somebody?” one of the barbers called out between cuts. A tall, broad man with thick forearms and a half-finished beard trim on his client.

Jahlil nodded and walked toward the front desk. “Naw, first time here,” he said. He cleared his throat slightly. “Name’s Jahlil. Heard this place gets it right.”

“Jahlil, huh?” The barber cocked a brow. “A’ight then. You new to the area?”

He hesitated just a fraction. “Nah, just… starting new. Needed a different space.”

There were quiet nods, like they understood. The older men didn’t ask questions. One of the younger guys grinned and said, “We all got reasons, fam.”

“Grab a seat. You up next,” the man in the third chair said, wiping his blade on a towel. “Name’s Dev. You good wit’ facial hair, or you want it gone?”

Jahlil ran a hand along his cheeks and jaw. His mustache had filled in the best over the last few weeks—thick and soft, curling slightly at the corners now. His chin hair was enough to shape a decent goatee, though his cheeks were still patchy, like early peach fuzz, even now.

“Lemme keep what I got,” he said. “Just line me up, clean and tight. Got school next week.”

Dev nodded, guiding him into the chair. “Cool. Sit back, relax. I got you, Jahlil.”

He did his best to relax. The chair felt different here—lower to the ground, older leather that creaked with memory. The other barbers continued their talk as Dev wrapped a warm towel around Jahlil’s jaw and began trimming.

“You at Metro, or…?”

“Yeah. Starting grad work.”

“Smart man. What you studyin’?”

“Anthropology.”

A pause. Then Dev chuckled. “Ohhh okay, you ‘bout to study us now?”

The shop laughed—low and good-natured. Jahlil felt a quick flush of heat crawl up his neck but grinned.

“Nah, man. Ain’t like that. Just trying to learn, understand for real.”

Dev glanced down at him, nodding as he smoothed a line along Jahlil’s jaw. “Respect. Lotta folks don’t even try.”

Another barber chimed in. “Just don’t be bringin’ no clipboards in here, aight?”

More laughter. Jahlil couldn’t help but smile, even as Dev shaped his mustache with careful precision.

“You got a good lip,” Dev said suddenly, standing back and tilting Jahlil’s chin. “Big, but neat. Girls gon’ eat that up.

A ripple of teasing murmurs followed, and Jahlil felt a strange sense of… pride? Belonging? The conversation wrapped around him like a familiar song. No one questioned him. No one called him Malik. He was Jahlil here. Just another Black man getting right before the week started.

As Dev applied a final dab of aftershave and pulled the cape away, Jahlil caught himself in the mirror. The edge-ups were tight, the mustache carved just right, and even the little hairs that clung stubbornly to his cheekbones had been shaped into something that gave structure, even character.

He looked like someone who’d always gone to this shop. Like he belonged here.

“Yo, Jahlil,” one of the younger guys said as he stepped down. “You hoop?”

“A little. Why?”

“Got a run Sunday at the rec. Pull up if you feelin’ bold.”

Jahlil smiled, brushing off the hair from his collar. “Bet.”

He pulled out his phone to tip through the app, gave Dev a nod, and headed out the door. A small group of men had just stepped in—loud and joking—but they paused, giving him a quick look as he passed.

“Fresh fade,” one said.

Jahlil didn’t say anything—just tugged at the waistband of his jeans, letting them sag just a bit, enough to feel the air move under his shirt, and walked out with the sun on his skin.

Two weeks in, school had settled into a rhythm—mornings full of dense readings and fast-paced lectures, afternoons in the field shadowing outreach workers, evenings spent poring over case notes or community profiles. But Fridays? Fridays belonged to Royal Kutz.

It started off casual, just a suggestion from his orientation packet. “Find a consistent anchor in the neighborhood,” the program rep had said. “Somewhere you return to. Get known. Get seen.” Royal Kutz became that place almost by accident.

That first week, he walked in unsure. The second week, Donnie didn’t even look up—just gestured with two fingers. “You back. Chair’s yours.”

Now, by the third Friday, it had become a ritual.

“Goatee cleaned up? Taper like last time?” Donnie asked, already unwrapping the fresh blade.

Jahlil nodded, easing into the chair. “Yeah, same deal.”

“Say less.”

Donnie never rushed. His hands were deliberate, slow, confident. The clippers whispered across Jahlil’s nape. His goatee, always stubborn and patchy before the program, had begun to come in fuller now—still couldn’t grow a beard if he tried, but the tight mustache and pointed goatee suited his new face. It made him look sharp. Older. Rooted.

“Skin tone’s settlin’ nice,” Donnie said, brushing off loose hair. “At first, I couldn’t tell if you was mixed or lightskinned or what. But now?”

He just nodded, as if everything had locked into place.

“You lookin’ right. How you feelin’ though?”

Jahlil shrugged. “Honestly? It’s weird. Some days I forget. Some days I look at my hands and don’t recognize ’em.”

Donnie met his eyes in the mirror. “That’s just growing into your skin, my dude. Everyone go through it. Not just you.”

He smiled faintly. “Even you?”

“Hell yeah. First time I came back from Rikers, didn’t even know how to talk to people. Sat right there where you sittin’ now. Took months to see myself again.”

Jahlil nodded slowly, letting that settle.

He didn’t rush out after his cut. He never did. The first week, it felt like a fluke. Now it was intentional. He stayed, lingering by the far bench while Donnie moved to his next appointment. Sometimes he swept the floor. Sometimes he just sat and listened to the arguments—basketball debates, bad relationship takes, verses from mixtapes no one asked to hear.

That third week, Donnie passed him a Gatorade and nodded toward the empty stool behind the counter.

“Sit. You might learn somethin’.”

And he was learning—how jokes slid between men like defensive shields, how grief and love sounded the same when wrapped in barbershop laughter, how stories repeated themselves from mouth to mouth until they became legend

It was there he met Dre and Malik (the new Malik), who started scheduling their own Friday cuts just to coincide. Dre worked security nights, Malik was training to be a social worker too. They’d dap him up on sight now. Jahlil. That name came easier every week.

“You slidin’ to Simone’s thing Saturday?” Dre asked that night as they walked out into the still-warm Harlem dusk.

“Maybe,” Jahlil said. “She texted me.”

“Bro. You better be there. She like you.”

Jahlil grinned. “Yeah?”

“You ain’t notice how she asked you what kinda wine you like? That’s code.”

They laughed, pushing open the doors of a bodega just for gum and a soda.

Later, alone in his small apartment, Jahlil stood in the mirror again. His skin had evened out—a warm, even brown now. Not the golden tone he remembered. His mustache was clean, his goatee pointed just right beneath his chin. His chest was broader, a result of the strength training they required as part of “cultural grounding”—a strange phrase he still didn’t fully understand, but one he was beginning to feel.

His dick, once smaller and lighter, now hung longer but not thicker. Still unfamiliar. Still something he stared at in the mirror, cupped in his palm as if trying to figure out what it meant to carry this. It wasn’t about size—it was about presence. Weight. A kind of malehood that stretched beyond flesh.

He stepped back from the mirror. His voice had deepened just enough that the echo startled him when he murmured, “You good.”

He wasn’t sure who he was saying it to—himself, or the version of himself he hadn’t met yet.

The sheets were cool when he slid into bed. His phone buzzed once.

Simone: “Don’t be shy tmrw. Wear that same hoodie. You looked good today.”

He stared at the message.

He wanted to believe her.

He wanted to believe himself.

And somewhere in the stillness, as he turned out the light, he whispered his own name—not the old one. The new one. The one Donnie called. The one Simone texted. The one that bounced around the barbershop like he’d always belonged.

Still, he tried.

He showed up at the Midlands BioWaste Division unannounced, with a fake name, a fabricated work order, and a cheap badge that looked real if you didn’t look too long. His assistant, Andrew, had arranged it all—found a makeup artist to darken his skin slightly, widen his nose with putty, even add faint calluses to his palms using silicone. The wig was glued down with care, short and curly, and he’d grown out just enough facial hair to pass for a bearded guy who didn’t quite keep up with his grooming.

When he walked in that morning, he believed—deeply—that he could pass.

“Hey, new guy,” one of the crew had barked. “You lost or something?” David gave a tight smile, trying to adjust his voice. “Nah, man. I’m supposed to be with Tony’s team?” The other man squinted. “You got a whole-ass camera crew followin’ you?”

“No,” David said quickly. “Just… orientation. Transfer from another plant.”

But someone was already pulling out their phone. Someone else muttered, “That look like Mr. Whitaker to you?” and then, louder, “Yo, isn’t that the CEO dude?”

The prosthetics had taken four hours to apply.

They lasted twelve minutes.

David didn’t make it past the safety training room. He’d barely sat down before a supervisor recognized the shape of his jaw, the cadence of his voice, the way he walked with his hands half-clenched like he always did on investor calls.

By noon, the whole floor knew.

He had to call security—not to remove anyone, but to extract himself.

That night, sitting shirtless in his penthouse, scrubbing adhesive from his cheeks with industrial remover, David stared at himself in the mirror.

It wasn’t just that he had failed. It was that who he was was un-hideable. He had crafted a life so specific, so visible, so perfectly elite, that no disguise—no matter how well done—could ever let him fade.

“I don’t want to play pretend,” he said aloud, to no one.

He wanted something real. Something where he didn’t have to act like a different person. He wanted to become one.

That’s when he made the call.

Two weeks later, in a nondescript facility under a NovaGro lab in Raleigh, he stood in a concrete chamber lined with biometric locks and fiber-optic panels.

Alina, head of Transformation Ops, met him with a tablet and a thick file. Her eyes flicked down to the bruises still faint on his cheek from removing the nose prosthetic too quickly.

“You’re sure?” she asked. “This isn’t reversible. Not in the short-term. It’ll be full integration. Your body, brain, endocrine system, vocal cords, memories—will all take on the template of the subject.”

“I’m not interested in partial,” David replied, already pulling off his tailored jacket. “No cameras. No makeup. I want a life that’s not mine. I want to feel what it is to be them.”

Alina nodded. “We ran compatibility scans. Based on your baseline metrics, there’s one candidate we believe will give you the most extreme—and instructive—contrast.”

She tapped a file and turned the screen toward him.

Jamal T. Thompson.

David stared at the photo. Then another. And another.

Sweat glistening down heavy shoulders. A grin that curled upward only on one side. Southern-born. Grew up in a single-bedroom home with four siblings. Works waste ops. Likes basketball, black-and-milds, homemade biscuits. Gay, proudly. And solid. Stocky. Compact like a brawler. Loud laugh. Tattoos up both arms.

The file scrolled, showing more pictures, video clips, audio samples.

David leaned closer, watching the way Jamal’s body moved, the way he talked with his hands, the ease with which he leaned into his own life.

David whispered, almost surprised at himself, “He’s… perfect.”

“We thought so,” Alina said. “You’ll be his twin. Not just in body. But in culture, behavior, hunger, and temperament. You’ll feel what he feels. Desire what he desires. You won’t just know what it’s like to be him. For a time… you will be him.”

David nodded slowly. “Then let’s begin.”

This time, there’d be no wig. No latex. No cheap accent. This time, he’d disappear entirely.

And when he came back?

The room smelled faintly of antiseptic, ozone, and engine grease. David stood on the metal platform in nothing but a black cotton robe, arms outstretched like he was about to be crucified. Overhead, a dozen articulated scanner arms moved around his body, flashing beams of blue light across his skin, taking full biometric and skeletal reads.

He’d already shaved—everywhere. Head, face, groin, chest, legs. They needed a blank canvas. His scalp felt raw, almost vulnerable. His jawline, now completely exposed, looked sharper than he remembered. Alina had noted that with a slight smirk.

“You’re going to miss that cleft chin,” she said, scrolling through readouts. “Jamal’s got a softer jaw. You’ll be chewing differently. Speaking differently. Swallowing’s going to feel odd at first, especially with the shift in tongue thickness and palate height.”

David just nodded. “I’m ready.”

“You say that now,” she muttered.

The table rose with a hydraulic hiss, angling him backward. Soft cuffs secured his ankles and wrists. His heart began to race—not from fear, exactly, but the kind of adrenaline he hadn’t felt since his Series B pitch fifteen years ago.

A nurse dabbed his temples with cold gel. “You’ll be under in sixty seconds. Just focus on what you’re doing this for.” “I am,” he said quietly. “I built this company with people like Jamal on the ground floor. I need to know what it really cost them.”

The IV slid in. The lights dimmed.

Warmth hit him first—a heavy, smothering warmth, like waking up beneath a lead blanket soaked in sweat. His limbs felt thick, like they were submerged in syrup. He tried to roll to one side and couldn’t—his body didn’t move how it used to. Muscles responded, but not with the sharp, clean coordination he knew. These were denser muscles. Bulkier. Slower. The joints flexed differently.

David’s eyelids peeled open with effort. The ceiling was low. Concrete, unfinished. A fan spun lazily above, stirring air that smelled like antiseptic, cocoa butter, and… funk. His own funk. That realization hit somewhere deep in his groin.

“Good morning,” came a voice. A man in slate gray scrubs stepped into view, tablet in hand. His badge read Technician HERNANDEZ.

David grunted.

The voice that came out wasn’t his. It was deep. Resonant. With a Southern rasp to it. It rumbled through his chest and vibrated at the base of his skull.

“Yeah…” Hernandez chuckled. “She’s calibrating. That’s yours now.”

Another tech appeared. A Black woman with long braids and a no-nonsense air. “Vitals holding. Let’s start full integration.”

David felt the soft weight of a robe over his body. His hands rested across his belly. Or rather—Jamal’s belly. Round, heavy, firm with thick muscle and a layer of fat. He lifted one hand slowly.

The skin was deep brown. The fingers thick. The knuckles worn. A callus sat below the ring finger—decades of hard grip. The nails were blunt and imperfect. Hair dusted the back of the hand. A dark tattoo curled along the wrist: BLESSED, in bold gothic font.

“Try wiggling your toes for me,” Hernandez said.

David shifted. The sensation was dull at first, then overwhelming. His feet were broad—flat. The soles ached even as he flexed them. He had never felt such pressure just from lying down.

“That’s all you,” the woman said. “Your new feet. Years of concrete floors in those. No arches. When you stand, you’re gonna walk wider, heavier. You carry weight differently now. Thighs rub. Calves thick. Your center of gravity’s lower, further forward.”

David grunted again.

“You’re sedated slightly,” Hernandez said. “Not fully. Just to keep the memory integration smooth. You’ll feel flashes. Desires. The sound of your new laugh. How you like your eggs. Let that stuff settle naturally.”

David nodded. Or tried to. His neck was thick. When he lifted his head, the weight of it shocked him. His traps tensed automatically—meatier now. It wasn’t pain. Just… density.

“Go slow,” the woman murmured. “Gettin’ up’s gonna feel like moving furniture inside your skin.”

David flexed his abs—only they weren’t abs. They were thick slabs of core muscle padded by soft fat. He felt the roll bunch and shift as he leaned forward. The robe stretched.

“Take a look at your chest,” Hernandez said.

He did. Broad pecs—soft but firm—hung heavy. His nipples were darker, thicker, surrounded by curly hair. He reached up and felt his beard. Coarse. Damp with sweat. It connected to thick sideburns and a tight fade that met a shaved neckline. The skin of his scalp was different too—more sensitive.

“Can you speak for us?” the woman asked.

David licked his lips. They were full. When he parted them, his tongue felt wide and heavy. He blinked, then rasped, “Mornin’.”

Even he startled at the sound. The accent. The rhythm. It didn’t just sound like someone else. It felt like someone else.

“Good,” Hernandez said. “Nice and gravelly. You’ll smooth out by lunch.”

David took a slow breath. Beneath the robe, he could feel his balls resting heavy against his thighs. His cock hung warm and wide, resting sideways. He could feel it in a way he never had before—every swing, every pulse.

“Alright, Jamal,” the woman said, eyes warm but focused. “Let’s sit up.”

He gripped the sides of the bed. His hands grunted against the rails. Arms strained—thicker now, tattooed, bunched with strength. His belly compressed as he sat forward. Sweat beaded along the curve of his spine.

He sat up.

And groaned—his own sound now, low and guttural.

“We’ll walk you through standing in a moment,” Hernandez said. “But first… we’ll give you a few minutes to explore. You need to understand what you’re working with.”

They both stepped back.

David looked down at his body—his new body—and let out a long, shaky breath.

He reached for the belt at the front of his robe. His pulse ticked faster. The cotton was damp against his chest. His new scent rose from under the fabric—earthy, sour, familiar in a way he didn’t want to admit yet.

He loosened the knot.

And slowly, deliberately, opened the robe.

The cotton robe fell open.

Heat rushed up from his groin like steam from a manhole. His chest expanded on instinct, like he had to make room for what he was seeing—what he was now.

His belly rose in a wide dome, a stretch of rich, dark skin mottled with freckles and a faded scar to the left of his navel. His pecs were thick, meaty, each with a dark nipple that pointed slightly outward, ringed in curly hair. A gold chain rested in the valley between them. His thighs spread wide beneath him, black and powerful, touching from mid-groin to knee. A stretch mark shimmered silver on one hip.

David’s breath caught as his eyes dropped lower.

His cock was half-hard already, wide at the base and resting sideways against his thigh, heavy and uncut. The skin there was darker, smoother. It looked used to friction. Behind it, his balls hung low and full, twitching slightly from the breeze of the overhead fan. His pubic hair was trimmed—more from wear than grooming—and sweat made it glisten.

Jesus… that’s mine now.

He swallowed. His new tongue rubbed differently inside his mouth. Focus. Just breathe.

He reached out slowly with both hands. The palms trembled—calloused, broader than his old ones. When his fingers touched his belly, a shock ran up his spine.

“Shit,” he muttered. But the voice came out with drawl and grit: “Shiit…” The way the ‘i’ curled and the ‘t’ dropped… it wasn’t David’s accent anymore. That was Jamal’s.

He tried again, softly, talking to himself. “C’mon now. Ain’t no reason to be actin’ scared.”

What the fuck did I just say? The voice didn’t sound scared at all. It sounded practiced, like this body already knew how to calm itself down. The cadence. The rhythm. It wasn’t rehearsed. It just was. He touched his pec next. It gave under pressure, but bounced when he let go. Then he pressed in again—thicker, weightier than anything he’d ever had on his chest. His fingers lingered on his nipple. It twitched.

David exhaled through his nose. “Damn, this body don’t miss. Who even talks like that? He did now, apparently.

He ran both hands over his stomach, feeling the way it sat. Solid. Not flat like before, but strong. He twisted a little, watching how it folded, how the weight shifted. When he bent forward, his thighs compressed his balls in a way that made his whole lower body twitch. Not pain. Just… mass. Heat. Life.

The scent from under his arms hit him next—cocoa butter and musk, something faintly like peppercorn and sun. That’s me now. I smell like that. I carry that.

He reached up and touched his face. The beard was dense, wiry. A little damp. He rubbed his cheek, watching the way his hand looked against his own skin. Dark on dark. Real.

He stood.

Slow. Careful.

His thighs tensed to lift him, and he immediately felt his center of balance had changed. Wider hips, heavier ass. His feet settled flat on the floor with a dull thud. Toes splayed wide, grounding him.

“Feel like I gotta… walk different,” he murmured.

The woman tech nodded. “You do. You’ll lead with the thighs now. Your knees don’t lock the same. And your back’s shaped to lean just slightly forward.”

David stepped once. Then twice. The robe swayed open behind him.

He stopped, rubbing the back of his neck, chuckling low. “Damn. I walk like my ass just told the room I showed up.”

The accent was undeniable now. Southern. Smooth. Deep in the throat. That wasn’t David pretending. That was Jamal, rising to the surface

“Vitals holding,” Hernandez said. “Integration is stabilizing. You’re thinking like David but moving and speaking like Jamal. Your subconscious is doing its job.”

David scratched his chest absently. “This is wild… I ain’t never— I mean—I’ve never felt this grounded in my body. It’s like… I take up space now. People gonna look at me different.”

“That’s the point,” the woman murmured.

David turned and looked at her. “Yeah… yeah, I see that.”

His hand brushed his cock, shifting it to the left side out of habit. It bounced slightly, swaying from the base. He caught himself smiling.

“This man got a lot goin’ on,” he laughed.

Prt 1 ^

Jamal’s Wild Nigh

Jamal had been dancing with a group of women, his new muscular body and street style drawing attention wherever he moved. The heat between him and one of the girls had been building all night—her hands lingering on his chest, his arms wrapped around her waist. Eventually, she leaned in close, her lips brushing his ear. “Why don’t we get outta here?” she whispered, her voice sultry.

Jamal didn’t hesitate. The confidence of his new identity made his decision easy. He grinned and nodded, taking her hand as they pushed through the crowd and headed out into the cool Vegas night. They grabbed a ride back to her hotel, and the moment they were through the door, they were all over each other.

Jamal’s hands moved over her body, his larger frame easily lifting her as they stumbled into the bedroom. As they kissed, his mind briefly flickered back to the party. Did I see myself? he wondered for a split second. But the thought was quickly drowned out by the heat of the moment. He was Jamal now, and he was in full control of his new life. Any trace of Jackson was gone.

The sex was intense, and Jamal reveled in the power of his new body. His size, his strength, and even the new feeling of his massive cock gave him a rush he hadn’t felt before. He owned the moment, and by the time they collapsed into the sheets, the only thing on his mind was the satisfaction of having fully embraced his new self.

Ricardo’s Night at the Cholo Club

Ricardo had broken off from the group earlier in the night, feeling the pull of something grittier, more in line with his new identity. After dancing for hours at the warehouse party, he found himself outside, lighting a cigarette and looking for something more. That’s when he overheard a couple of guys talking about a local cholo club nearby.

“Yo, that’s my scene,” Ricardo muttered to himself, a grin spreading across his face as he decided to check it out.

He walked through the streets, feeling the cool night air against his tattooed skin, his bandana tied tight over his head. The club wasn’t far, and when he stepped inside, the heavy bass of the music and the dim lighting immediately set the tone. This place was rougher, more streetwise—the kind of environment Ricardo craved.

He made his way to the bar, ordering a drink in Spanish, his accent now second nature. As he sipped his drink, a few women took notice of him, their eyes lingering on his tattoos and tough demeanor. One of them came over, clearly interested. “You new here?” she asked, her eyes flicking over his face tattoo.

Ricardo grinned, leaning back against the bar. “Somethin’ like that,” he replied, his voice dripping with confidence.

The night continued with drinks, dancing, and the kind of gritty, underground vibe that Clint would’ve never been able to handle. But Ricardo? He was right at home. He danced with the woman for hours, feeling the heat of the club around him, fully immersed in his new life.

For a brief moment, though, as he looked across the crowded dance floor, he thought he saw Clint—his old self—standing by the bar. His heart skipped a beat, but when he blinked and looked again, the man was gone. Nah, I’m just trippin’. Ricardo pushed the thought away and refocused on the moment. He was Ricardo now, through and through.

Eric’s Night at the Gay Club

Eric had been dancing at the warehouse for hours, but as the night got wilder, he felt the pull to explore more of what Vegas had to offer. The attraction he had felt toward the men at the party was undeniable, and the confidence he had gained from his transformation made it easy to act on those impulses.

After leaving the warehouse, Eric found his way to a gay club he had heard mentioned earlier in the night. His sharp suit and the cigar he held between his fingers fit perfectly into the high-end, sophisticated vibe of the club. The moment he stepped inside, the music washed over him, and he immediately felt a sense of belonging.

Men dressed in sleek outfits, some in leather, some in sharp suits, danced and mingled around him. Eric quickly found himself in conversation with a tall, muscular man who shared his love for cigars. They talked, danced, and shared a few laughs, the connection between them growing stronger as the night went on.

Eric’s attraction to men had been a new development, but in this club, it felt completely natural. As he danced close to the man, their bodies moving in sync, Eric realized just how fully he had embraced this new part of himself. There was no hesitation, no second-guessing. He was Eric Davenport now, and this was his world.

At one point in the night, though, Eric thought he saw Lance—his old self—across the room. It was just a quick flash, a reflection in one of the mirrors near the bar. He froze for a moment, unsure of what he had seen. But when he looked again, the image was gone. Must be the lights, he thought, dismissing it as he turned back to the man he was dancing with.

The night continued, filled with dancing, cigars, and drinks, and by the time Eric left the club, the lingering thought of his old self had completely faded.

The Next Morning

The next day, the three men slowly regrouped at the hotel, each of them still buzzing from their wild nights. Jamal was the first to arrive, looking tired but satisfied, a small smirk playing on his lips as he sat on the couch, lighting a cigar.

Ricardo came in next, looking equally worn out but with the same confident swagger he’d had the night before. “Yo, last night was wild, huh?” he said, dropping into a chair and lighting his own cigarette.

Eric was the last to return, still dressed sharply, though his suit was slightly rumpled from the long night. He grinned as he walked in, grabbing one of his cigars from the box and lighting it. “Wild doesn’t even cover it,” he said, exhaling a thick cloud of smoke.

They all sat down, sharing their experiences from the night—the women, the clubs, the dancing—but none of them mentioned the brief moments when they thought they saw their former selves. It seemed like a strange coincidence, but none of them wanted to dwell on it.

“So,” Jamal said, leaning back and puffing on his cigar, “we gonna talk about what’s next?”

Ricardo grinned. “Ain’t no goin’ back now, bro. We’re livin’ this life.”

Eric nodded, his eyes glinting with confidence. “I think we’re just getting started.”

As the smoke curled around them, the three men sat back, fully immersed in their new lives, the memories of their old selves fading into the background, replaced by the excitement of everything they had become.

As the night unfolded, Jamal, Ricardo, and Eric each ventured into their respective new worlds, fully embracing the identities they had grown into over the past few days.

Jamal’s Night

Jamal (formerly Jackson) made his way to a hip-hop club deep in the city, surrounded by people who looked and dressed just like him. The pounding bass, the dim lighting, and the energy of the crowd felt like home. He fit in perfectly—his new, muscular body, gold chains, and confident swagger made him the center of attention.

He danced with women who gravitated toward him, drank with a group of guys who respected his tough look, and embraced every second of the night. As he moved through the club, people nodded at him in acknowledgment, recognizing him as one of their own. It was a world Jackson would’ve never fit into, but Jamal thrived here.

Despite the excitement, though, there was a strange moment that stopped him cold. Out of the corner of his eye, he thought he saw himself—the old Jackson, tall and lean, standing by the bar. Jamal froze, his heart racing as he blinked, trying to process what he was seeing. But when he looked again, the man was gone. He shook his head, chalking it up to a trick of the lights. Must’ve been the drinks, he thought, letting it go and diving back into the music.

Ricardo’s Night

Ricardo (formerly Clint) found himself in a local cholo club, the kind of gritty underground place he’d always imagined fitting into. The heavy bass, the dark atmosphere, and the streetwise crowd made him feel alive. He leaned against the bar, his tattoos catching the dim light as he scanned the room, feeling right at home.

As he moved through the crowd, people nodded at him, recognizing his tough exterior and respecting it. He chatted with a few guys about tattoos and street life, his Spanish accent rolling off his tongue naturally. He even found himself dancing with a couple of women who were drawn to his rough charm.

But just like Jamal, Ricardo had a brief, unsettling moment. Out of the corner of his eye, he thought he saw Clint—the old version of himself, standing by the door in a plaid shirt and cowboy boots. His heart skipped a beat as he blinked, but when he looked again, the man was gone. No way, Ricardo thought, shaking it off and diving back into the night.

Eric’s Night

Eric (formerly Lance) headed to a high-end gay club, dressed to the nines in one of his new tailored suits. The club’s sleek, modern vibe, with sharp-dressed men sipping cocktails and cigars, suited him perfectly. He moved through the crowd with confidence, engaging in conversations about finance, luxury, and life.

As the night went on, Eric found himself dancing with several men, feeling a sense of freedom and ease that had taken him by surprise over the past few days. The attraction he felt was new, but it felt right—he was Eric Davenport now, fully immersed in this life of wealth and refinement.

However, like Jamal and Ricardo, Eric had his own moment of doubt. For just a second, he thought he saw Lance—the cowboy version of himself, dressed in boots and a Stetson, standing near the edge of the bar. Eric blinked, but when he looked again, the man had vanished. Must be the lighting, he thought, brushing it off as he continued to enjoy the night.

Midnight at the Shopkeeper’s Exclusive Party

As the clock approached midnight, the three men converged at the exclusive party hosted by the Halloween shopkeeper. They arrived separately, but as they walked through the doors of the massive warehouse, they could feel the energy shift. The crowd was different here—people looked like they, too, had undergone transformations. Some were in elaborate costumes, while others seemed like they had permanently embraced their new lives, just as Jamal, Ricardo, and Eric had.

The three of them regrouped at the bar, exchanging glances that held unspoken thoughts. They didn’t mention the strange moments from earlier in the night but sensed that something was different about this party.

“Feels like we’re all in the same boat,” Jamal muttered, nodding toward the crowd.

Ricardo smirked. “Yeah, we all got transformed, huh? I can tell.”

Eric took a long drag from his cigar, exhaling slowly as he surveyed the room. “This place is somethin’ else. Looks like the shopkeeper’s got more people like us here.”

As they mingled through the crowd, something eerie began to happen. Each of them, separately, caught glimpses of their former selves again—Jackson, Clint, and Lance. This time, it wasn’t just a quick flash in the corner of their eyes. Their old bodies were there, standing across the room, mingling with the crowd, just like them.

Jamal saw Jackson first, standing by a group of people, laughing and talking. It was surreal—seeing his old self, as if he had never left that body. Jamal’s heart raced, and for a moment, he couldn’t breathe. How is this even possible?

Ricardo noticed Clint next, standing by the bar, sipping a drink with a lost look on his face. The old version of himself seemed out of place here, as if he didn’t know where he belonged. Ricardo’s stomach dropped. Is this real?

Eric spotted Lance near the edge of the room, looking as if he had just wandered into the wrong party. The cowboy version of himself looked confused, unsure of the world he was in. Eric’s heart pounded as he tried to wrap his mind around what he was seeing.

None of them said a word to each other, but they all shared the same stunned realization—their former bodies were at the party. They were here, somehow alive, and living separately from the men they had become.

As the night continued, the tension grew. Each man tried to enjoy the party, but the presence of their old selves lingered in the back of their minds, raising more questions than answers. What did it mean? Was this part of the shopkeeper’s plan? And most importantly, what were they supposed to do next?

They didn’t know the answers yet, but one thing was clear—this night was far from over.

As the night continued, each of the three men found themselves face-to-face with a former version of their friend’s body, but in a twist of fate, it wasn’t their own. Ricardo, Jamal, and Eric each felt the tug to approach the old body of one of the others—recognizing their past selves, but filtered through the lens of how much they had changed.

Ricardo Talks to Jackson’s Body

Ricardo (formerly Clint) spotted Jackson standing awkwardly near the bar, his cowboy hat tipped slightly back, looking completely out of place in the chaotic energy of the party. Something about seeing Jackson—the old body of Jamal—felt strange to Ricardo. He couldn’t help but laugh under his breath at the sight of the cowboy standing stiff in the middle of the buzzing crowd. Man, this dude looks like he don’t belong anywhere here.

Ricardo sauntered over, his tattoos visible under his loose, low-slung flannel shirt. He flicked the butt of his cigarette before addressing Jackson with a smirk. “Yo, man, you look lost,” Ricardo said, his thick accent and street swagger now second nature.

Jackson turned, blinking in confusion, clearly out of place and unsure how to respond. “Uh, yeah, kinda. This place ain’t really my scene.”

Ricardo chuckled, eyeing Jackson’s boots and cowboy hat with a mix of amusement and disdain. How did I ever think this cowboy shit was cool? he thought, shaking his head. “You ever think about steppin’ out of that cowboy life?” Ricardo asked, his voice dripping with judgment.

Jackson looked surprised, glancing down at his drink as if searching for an answer. “Nah, man. I like the ranch, the quiet. Ain’t nothin’ wrong with it.”

Ricardo couldn’t help but snort, finding it hard to believe that anyone would be content living such a sheltered life. “Ain’t nothin’ wrong with it, huh? Man, you missin’ out. There’s more out here than just ridin’ bulls and drinkin’ beer.” He took a long drag from his cigarette before flicking it away. “I used to be like you, thinkin’ small. But now? I’m reppin’ something bigger. Something real.”

Jackson looked uncomfortable, clearly not sure what Ricardo was getting at. “I mean, it works for me.”

Ricardo rolled his eyes, shaking his head. “Yeah, maybe it does. For now.” He clapped Jackson on the shoulder, feeling a strange sense of superiority. “Good luck with that, man.” Without waiting for a response, Ricardo walked away, feeling like he had just left his past far behind.

Jamal Talks to Lance’s Body

Jamal (formerly Jackson) was making his way through the crowd when he spotted Lance—Eric’s old body—standing near the dance floor, looking completely out of place. The cowboy’s wide stance, tall boots, and confused expression made Jamal smirk. Man, you lookin’ like a lost puppy in a world you don’t understand, he thought, shaking his head.

Jamal swaggered over, his gold chain catching the flashing lights as he approached. He towered over Lance, his new body brimming with confidence that the old Jackson never had. “Yo, cowboy, you lookin’ a little outta place here,” Jamal said, his deep, commanding voice catching Lance off guard.

Lance glanced up, his Southern drawl slipping out nervously. “Yeah, uh, this ain’t really my kinda thing. Just tryin’ to figure it out, I guess.”

Jamal chuckled, his muscular arms crossing over his chest. Man, this guy’s so soft, he thought, judgment radiating from him. “Figure it out, huh? That cowboy shit still workin’ for you?”

Lance shrugged, clearly unsure. “I guess. Ain’t nothin’ wrong with workin’ hard, livin’ simple.”

Jamal leaned in, his voice dropping to a low rumble. “Nah, man. You livin’ small. You don’t even know what you’re missin’ out on.” He looked down at Lance with a sense of superiority, feeling like he had outgrown everything that body represented. “You ever think about doin’ somethin’ more? Bein’ somethin’ bigger?”

Lance blinked, confused. “Bigger?”

Jamal smirked. “Yeah, bigger. Livin’ outside that small-town bullshit. I used to think like you. Think I had it all figured out. But now? I’m runnin’ this shit.” He glanced back toward the crowd, the music thumping around them. “You stay safe, cowboy.”

Without another word, Jamal walked away, leaving Lance standing there, looking even more out of place. Jamal’s thoughts raced with judgment, fully believing that his new life was better in every way. These rednecks don’t know what they’re missin’.

Eric Talks to Clint’s Body

Eric (formerly Lance) spotted Clint—Ricardo’s old body—standing near the back of the warehouse, looking as uncomfortable as a fish out of water. The plaid shirt, cowboy boots, and slightly awkward stance made Eric raise an eyebrow. God, I used to think this was normal?

Eric, now fully immersed in his high-end world of cigars and luxury, walked over with a confident swagger, his tailored suit pristine despite the long night. “You lookin’ lost, cowboy,” Eric said smoothly, his refined accent cutting through the noise.

Clint glanced up, clearly thrown off by Eric’s polished appearance. “Yeah, this place is… different,” Clint mumbled, his hands fidgeting with his drink.

Eric crossed his arms, taking a slow puff of his cigar. Man, this guy’s so… simple. He couldn’t help but feel a quiet disdain for the cowboy lifestyle he used to admire. “You ever think about somethin’ bigger than that ranch life? Ridin’ bulls, fixin’ fences, all that?”

Clint looked confused. “I mean, I like what I do. Ain’t nothin’ wrong with it.”

Eric smirked, his eyes narrowing slightly. “Nothin’ wrong with it, but you’re playin’ it small. There’s a whole world out here, man. You’re stickin’ to what you know ‘cause it’s easy.” He glanced down at Clint’s boots, feeling like he had risen far above the simple life his old self had lived.

Clint shifted uncomfortably. “I guess it works for me.”

Eric chuckled, his voice laced with superiority. “Works for now, sure. But you don’t even know what you’re missin’.” He looked back at the crowd, his eyes glinting with the confidence of someone who had fully embraced his new life. “Good luck, cowboy.”

With that, Eric turned on his heel, walking away without a second glance. His mind raced with thoughts of how much he had changed—how much better he was now. These guys don’t even know what real life is.

4 AM: The Shopkeeper’s Announcement

By the time 4 AM rolled around, the party was still going strong, but there was a subtle shift in the air as the Halloween shopkeeper stepped onto the stage. His dark robes flowed around him, and he raised a hand to quiet the crowd. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he began, his voice carrying effortlessly through the room. “The time has come to announce the winners of tonight’s transformation contest.”

The crowd erupted in cheers, but Jamal, Ricardo, and Eric were lost in their own thoughts. Each of them had judged the body they’d spoken to, silently criticizing the simplicity of the lives they used to lead—or at least, the lives their friends used to live. They felt superior, having outgrown those small-town personas. But something still lingered, a quiet discomfort they couldn’t shake.

The shopkeeper smiled knowingly as he scanned the crowd. “Tonight is not just about what you’ve become,” he continued. “It’s about embracing who you’ve chosen to be—and, perhaps, acknowledging what you’ve left behind.”

Jamal, Ricardo, and Eric exchanged glances, understanding the weight of his words. Each of them had left behind their old selves, but their conversations with their former bodies had stirred something deep inside them. They had changed, yes, but they hadn’t fully let go of who they once were.

As the shopkeeper prepared to announce the winners, the three men stood silently, reflecting on the paths they had taken and the judgment they had passed. Whatever happened next, one thing was certain—they weren’t the same men who had walked into that party. And they never would be again.

After the announcement of the winners, the party continued into the early morning. Jamal, Ricardo, and Eric celebrated, knowing this night marked the end of one chapter and the beginning of another. They danced, drank, and lived in their new personas until the first light of dawn crept through the city. By 6 AM, exhausted but exhilarated, they returned to their hotel.

In the elevator ride up, the weight of their decisions hung between them. Jamal, who would soon return to his life as Jackson in Montana, glanced at his reflection in the mirrored elevator walls, knowing this would be the last time he’d see himself as Jamal. Ricardo and Eric, now fully embracing their lives as Ricardo and Eric, felt a quiet sense of finality settle over them.

The Final Breakfast

Back at the hotel, they decided to share one last meal together before going their separate ways. In the quiet of the hotel restaurant, with the morning sun softly illuminating the room, they sat around a table, reflecting on the nights behind them and the futures they’d committed to.

“I ain’t gonna lie,” Jamal said, pushing his food around his plate. “This was one hell of a ride. Bein’ Jamal? It was somethin’ else. But goin’ back to Jackson? It feels right.”

Ricardo, now fully embodying his new life as the tough cholo, nodded in agreement. “I get that, hermano. But me? I’m stayin’ like this. This life fits me.” He grinned, running his fingers over his tattooed arms, fully accepting his transformation.

Eric, the sharp, confident financier, puffed on a cigar as he spoke. “Same here. I’ve found something bigger, something better. There’s no going back for me.” He exhaled a cloud of smoke, his eyes gleaming with the confidence of his new identity.

They talked about their experiences, the wildness of the night, and the surreal conversations with their former selves. But eventually, the topic shifted to what lay ahead. The weight of their choices settled in, knowing that they had committed to these new lives for a year.

“So, we’ll meet again in a year,” Ricardo said, raising his glass. “See what happens then.”

Jamal nodded, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Yeah. One year. We’ll see where we’re all at.”

One Last Moment as Jamal

After breakfast, Jamal returned to his hotel room alone, knowing this would be his last moment as Jamal. He stood in front of the mirror, staring at the muscular frame, the dark skin, and the tattoos that had become so familiar over the past few days. This body had given him power and confidence he’d never experienced before.

With a heavy breath, he undressed and ran his hands over his body one last time, savoring the feel of his strong muscles. His fingers drifted down to his large cock, and he began to stroke, his mind racing with memories of his time as Jamal—the women, the strength, the raw masculinity he’d embraced. “Damn, I’m gonna miss this,” he muttered to himself as the pleasure built.

His body tensed, and he looked at himself in the mirror, knowing this would be the last time he would feel like this. As he climaxed, a deep sense of closure washed over him. He cleaned up, dressed, and looked at himself one more time. It’s time.

Returning to the Shopkeeper

Jamal, Ricardo, and Eric made their way back to the Halloween shopkeeper’s warehouse for the final transformation. The city was quiet, the sun slowly rising as they walked in silence, each lost in their thoughts. The shopkeeper was waiting for them, his dark robes flowing as he welcomed them.

“Are you ready?” he asked, his eyes filled with the same mysterious knowledge they’d seen when this all began.

Jamal stepped forward first. “Yeah. Let’s do this.”

One by one, they entered the transformation chamber. Jamal’s body shifted and shrunk as he reverted to Jackson. His muscles softened, his skin lightened, and his old, familiar cowboy frame returned. When it was over, he looked down at himself—tall, lean, and exactly as he had been before. The tattoos were gone, and the dark skin was replaced by the pale tones he had grown up with. He dressed in his tight wranglers, boots, and a well-worn cowboy hat, feeling strangely at peace with the transformation. I’m home.

As Jackson stepped out of the chamber, Ricardo—now Clint—grinned at him. “Looks like you’re back, cowboy.”

Jackson smiled softly. “Yeah. Feels right.”

Ricardo and Eric, now fully committed to their lives as Ricardo and Eric, embraced their new identities one last time before saying their farewells. The bond between them remained, even as they prepared to go their separate ways.

“We’ll see you in a year,” Eric said, his voice confident.

“Yeah,” Jackson replied, tipping his hat. “We’ll be here.”

A Final Farewell

Jackson, Clint, and Lance—all returned to their original forms—climbed into their rented truck, preparing to head back to Montana. The road stretched out before them as they drove in silence, each man processing the strange and life-changing experience they had just gone through.

Jackson glanced at Clint, who had once been Ricardo but now seemed fully settled into his new life as a cowboy. “We’ll make it work,” Clint said, sensing Jackson’s thoughts. “For a year, at least.”

Jackson nodded. “Yeah. We will.”

As the truck rumbled down the highway, they left the craziness of Vegas behind, knowing that the next chapter of their lives would be very different. They had all changed, in ways they couldn’t fully understand yet, but they knew one thing for certain—this was only the beginning of their transformations, and they would see each other again in a year to see where those changes had taken them.

Ricardo’s New Life: Embracing the Cholo Lifestyle

Ricardo (formerly Clint) had fully embraced his new life in the gritty cholo neighborhood of Las Vegas. The streets pulsed with energy, and the low hum of life on the edge excited him in ways the ranch in Montana never had. The moment he stepped back into his world, it was like slipping into a comfortable pair of shoes—familiar, tough, and perfectly fitted.

The barrio was alive with sounds: the thumping bass of lowrider cars cruising slowly down the street, the laughter of kids playing soccer, and the distant sounds of conversations in Spanish drifting from open windows. Ricardo stood in front of his new pride and joy—a meticulously customized lowrider. The car gleamed under the sun, painted a deep maroon with silver detailing along the edges. The wheels were chrome, the rims big and flashy, and the hydraulics gave it that signature bounce when he hit the switch. The seats were covered in plush leather, and he had spent hours making sure the stereo system blasted the hardest beats as he rolled through the streets.

Life in the barrio was tough, gritty, and dangerous, but Ricardo loved every second of it. Gone were the days of Clint, the simple cowboy working with cattle and living in wide open spaces. Now, Ricardo thrived in the cramped, concrete jungle where loyalty and respect were earned, not given.

The gang activity was a constant undercurrent in his new life. Ricardo had found himself running with a local crew, the Hijos del Sol, a group of street-hardened cholos who commanded respect. The guys in the gang were tight, always looking out for each other. Ricardo was quick to earn his place among them, his new tattoos—a Virgin Mary on his arm and a skull draped in a bandana on his forearm—marking his allegiance. The gang had their hands in everything: dealing on the streets, protecting the neighborhood, and keeping their enemies at bay.

Ricardo fit in like he had always been there. His look was perfect—the low-slung jeans, plaid flannel shirt buttoned only at the top, and the bandana wrapped tight around his head. The heavy silver chain around his neck gleamed in the Vegas sun, and his inked arms made him stand out as a man not to be messed with. His swagger was undeniable; he walked the streets with a confidence that came naturally now, knowing he had both the crew and the respect of the neighborhood behind him.

At night, Ricardo often found himself at one of the local cholo clubs, dimly lit spaces filled with the sounds of corridos, hip-hop, and reggaeton. The women there were drawn to his bad-boy persona, his tattoos, his low-slung pants, and his commanding presence. Ricardo’s gaze could turn heads, and the women loved the dangerous air around him. They wore tight dresses, their hair slicked back or tied up in intricate styles, their lips painted a deep red. Some of them had tattoos of their own, dark ink spiraling across their backs and shoulders.

There was one woman in particular, Valeria, who had caught his eye. She was the kind of woman who commanded attention when she walked into a room—curvy, with dark hair that spilled down her back in waves, and a sharp smile that made her look both seductive and dangerous. Her hips swayed as she walked, and Ricardo knew from the moment he saw her that he had to have her.

They met at a block party one night, and after a few heated looks exchanged across the crowd, Valeria made her way over to him. She ran a hand over his tattooed arm, tracing the ink with her fingertips. “You from around here, papi?” she asked, her voice smooth and sultry.

Ricardo smirked, taking a long drag from his cigarette. “I am now,” he replied, his voice thick with the confidence he’d found in this new life.

That night, Valeria and Ricardo ended up in the backseat of his lowrider, the windows fogged up as they made out like teenagers. She straddled him, her hands gripping his shoulders, while he leaned back, enjoying the feel of her lips on his neck. The leather seats squeaked as they moved, the tension between them building until it exploded in a wild, passionate encounter. It wasn’t just about the physical connection—it was about power, control, and the rush of living on the edge.

Valeria wasn’t the only one. Ricardo quickly became known in the neighborhood as someone who could get any woman he wanted. There were nights when he’d leave a party with two girls on his arm, their tattoos and curves on full display, knowing they were drawn to the danger that followed him everywhere he went.

But his lifestyle wasn’t just about the women. It was about the cars, the respect, the way people moved out of his way when they saw him rolling down the street in his lowrider. He’d hit the hydraulics just right, making the car bounce as he cruised by, windows down, music blasting. People would watch, nodding with approval as he passed, knowing Ricardo wasn’t just another guy in the barrio—he was someone to be reckoned with.

There were also times when the gang needed him. The Hijos del Sol weren’t just about partying—they had a reputation to maintain. Whether it was protecting their turf or handling a situation with a rival crew, Ricardo was there, ready to step up when called. He had grown accustomed to the life—the tension of waiting for a deal to go down, the quick exchanges of cash and product, the silent nods of understanding between men who lived on the edge.

Every day, Ricardo slipped further and further into his new world, and the life of Clint, the ranch cowboy, faded from his mind. He had fully become Ricardo, and he knew there was no going back.

Eric’s New Life: Thriving in Finance and Embracing His Sexuality

Eric, formerly Lance, stepped out of his sleek black car and adjusted the lapel of his tailored suit as he looked up at the towering glass buildings of Manhattan. This was home now—the energy, the fast-paced lifestyle, the relentless ambition that fueled the city. His cowboy days as Lance felt like a distant memory, a life that no longer fit him.

In the weeks since his return to New York, Eric had slipped back into his role as a high-powered financier with ease. His new identity as Eric Davenport wasn’t just a persona; it was who he was meant to be. The sharp suits, the expensive watches, the cigars—this was his life now, and he thrived in every moment of it.

At work, Eric dominated the boardroom. His confidence was unmatched, his presence commanding. His colleagues admired him, and his clients trusted him with multi-million-dollar deals. Whether he was closing a hedge fund deal or advising a wealthy client on their investments, Eric carried himself with the air of someone who knew exactly what he was doing. His deep voice and refined speech demanded respect, and every meeting he walked into felt like a performance where he was the lead actor, always in control.

His days were filled with power lunches at exclusive restaurants, meetings in high-rise offices, and evening cocktails at rooftop bars where New York’s elite gathered. And at night, Eric fully embraced his identity as a gay man, exploring the side of himself that had been dormant back when he was Lance.

The gay scene in New York was vibrant, luxurious, and alive with possibilities. Eric frequented high-end cigar lounges and upscale gay clubs, where he was always the best-dressed man in the room. The atmosphere in these places was electric—men in suits and sharp attire mingling with the same confidence and ambition that drove their professional lives.

Eric would often find himself in conversations with other powerful men—bankers, lawyers, CEOs—all of them drawn to his magnetic presence. He was no longer shy or unsure of himself, as Lance might have been. Instead, Eric leaned into his attraction to men with a boldness that felt natural now. He would sit back in the leather chairs of a cigar lounge, puffing on a thick, Cuban cigar, discussing deals and the stock market with a handsome man sitting across from him.

The tension was always there—charged, electric, and unmistakable. And by the end of the night, more often than not, Eric would find himself back in his luxury penthouse, sharing a drink, a laugh, and eventually a bed with one of the men he had met that night.

One evening, after an especially intense night at a rooftop bar, Eric found himself tangled up with a man named Alex, a Wall Street trader with broad shoulders and a jawline that could cut glass. They had been flirting all night, their conversations a mix of business and seduction, the lines between the two blurring as the drinks flowed. By the time they got back to Eric’s apartment, the sexual tension was unbearable.

They barely made it through the door before they were kissing, their suits wrinkling as they tore at each other’s clothes. Eric pushed Alex onto his plush leather couch, straddling him as they kissed deeply, his fingers tangled in Alex’s hair. The confidence Eric felt in these moments was intoxicating. He had come a long way from being the quiet cowboy Lance—now he was fully in control, living the life he had always wanted.

Their night together was passionate, intense, and everything Eric had craved. And when the morning light filtered through the floor-to-ceiling windows of his apartment, Eric lay back in bed, feeling completely at ease with who he had become. The life of Lance—simple, rural, and confined—was gone. In its place was a man who thrived in the power and passion of New York City.

As Eric dressed in another perfectly tailored suit that morning, looking out over the city skyline, he knew he was exactly where he was meant to be. His career was thriving, his personal life was filled with excitement, and the man he had become was unstoppable. There was no going back to the cowboy life—he had found his true self, and nothing could take that away from him.

While Ricardo embraced the gritty, dangerous world of the barrio and gang life in Las Vegas, and Eric thrived in the fast-paced, luxurious life of finance and passion in New York, both men had fully stepped into their new lives, leaving their cowboy pasts far behind. Each had found a life that suited them better than the one they had left behind, and for now, there was no looking back.

Over the next six months, Ricardo’s life in the cholo neighborhood of Las Vegas deepened. He became more embedded in the community, not just as a member of the Hijos del Sol but as someone who fully embraced the lifestyle, the culture, and the relationships that came with it. The transformation from Clint to Ricardo wasn’t just physical anymore—it was mental, emotional, and even spiritual. Ricardo was no longer just playing a role. He was Ricardo, and his old life as Clint became a distant, almost forgotten memory.

More Tattoos and Deeper Connections

As the months passed, Ricardo’s skin became a canvas, marking his journey deeper into the cholo life. He already had several tattoos from his early days of transformation, but his collection grew rapidly as he spent more time with his gang brothers and inking became a part of his daily existence. One of his new tattoos was a full sleeve on his left arm, an intricate design of skulls, roses, and a weeping Virgin Mary, symbolizing both life and death, love and loss. On his right arm, he got the name “Valeria” tattooed in flowing script, in honor of the woman who had become central to his life.

He had gotten close to the local tattoo artist, a man named José, who was well-known in the barrio for his intricate designs and steady hand. José had become not just a friend, but a mentor of sorts, helping Ricardo understand the deeper significance behind the art and what it meant in the culture. The ink wasn’t just decoration—it was a badge of honor, a symbol of where you stood in life, and what you had sacrificed to be there.

In one session, after several hours of tattooing, Ricardo leaned back in the chair, admiring his newest piece—a large, intimidating skull wrapped in flames that now covered his entire chest. José stood back and admired his work. “You’re part of this now, hermano,” José said, his voice low and serious. “This ink… it’s not just for show. It’s who you are.”

Ricardo nodded, feeling the weight of those words. The tattoos marked him as a man of the barrio, a man who had earned his place in this world. The more ink he got, the further he felt from his former self as Clint, the clean-cut cowboy.

Valeria and Pregnancy

Valeria had become more than just a casual fling for Ricardo. Their relationship deepened as they spent more time together. She was fierce, independent, and had lived through her own hardships in the barrio. They shared an unspoken understanding of what it meant to survive in this world. She was a ride-or-die woman, loyal to Ricardo and fiercely protective of him. They had spent countless nights together, cruising the streets in his lowrider, talking about their lives, their hopes, and their futures.

One night, as they lay together in Ricardo’s apartment, Valeria turned to him, her dark hair falling over her face. “I have something to tell you,” she said, her voice soft but serious.

Ricardo, half asleep, turned to face her. “What is it, mami?”

She hesitated for a moment before saying the words that would change his life forever. “I’m pregnant, Ricardo.”

The room seemed to freeze. Ricardo’s heart raced, and for a moment, he didn’t know how to respond. His first instinct was panic—he wasn’t ready for this, wasn’t sure how to be a father, especially in this world. But then he looked at Valeria, her face serious but calm, and something inside him shifted. This was his life now. And this baby? This baby was part of that.

He sat up, his mind racing, but a sense of responsibility quickly settled over him. “Are you sure?” he asked, his voice low.

Valeria nodded. “I’m sure.”

Ricardo leaned back, staring at the ceiling, a mixture of excitement and fear swirling inside him. “Damn,” he muttered, rubbing his hands over his face. But there was no question in his mind now. He would step up. He had to. “We’re gonna make this work,” he finally said, his voice more certain. “I’ll take care of you both.”

Over the next few weeks, Ricardo found himself thinking more and more about his future. He was going to be a father. The thought of raising a child in the barrio was daunting, but it also felt right. The gang, the neighborhood, the life—it was all part of who he was now, and it would be part of his child’s life too.

Valeria’s pregnancy became a central part of Ricardo’s life. He was fiercely protective of her, making sure she was safe and comfortable. He spent more time at home, staying close to her as the months passed. But the barrio never left him. The gang was still part of his daily life—whether it was handling street business or simply hanging out with his crew, Ricardo was always involved. However, he became more aware of the dangers that came with the life he led, knowing that soon, he would have a family to protect.

Realizing His Racism Was Ignorant and Stereotypical

As Ricardo settled deeper into his life, he found himself reflecting more on his past as Clint. He had once been a cowboy with deeply ingrained views about people of different races and cultures, particularly Latinos. Back in Montana, Clint had held stereotypes about gangs, cholos, and the barrio life—seeing them as dangerous, lazy, or inferior. But now, living this life, Ricardo began to realize just how ignorant and wrong he had been.

One evening, as he sat with José and a few of the other guys from the Hijos del Sol, drinking beers on a stoop, the conversation turned to their backgrounds, how they’d all ended up in the barrio.

José, leaning back with a cigarette between his lips, spoke about how his parents had come to the U.S. as undocumented immigrants, fleeing violence in Mexico. They had worked long hours for little pay, saving every penny to give José a better life. “Ain’t nothin’ easy about this life,” José said, exhaling a cloud of smoke. “But we fight for it. We make it work.”

As Ricardo listened, he felt a deep sense of shame. He had once judged these men, these families, without knowing anything about their struggles. Back in Montana, Clint had seen them as outsiders, but now, he realized they were no different from anyone else. They were hardworking, loyal, and fought for their place in a society that often tried to push them down.

Ricardo spoke up, feeling the need to confess something. “Man, I used to think all this gang shit was just trouble. Thought it was lazy, y’know? Didn’t get it. But now? I see it’s about family. It’s about survivin’.”

José nodded, understanding in his eyes. “We all got our journeys, hermano. But you’re here now. That’s what matters.”

Ricardo realized how deeply his past prejudices had shaped his views and how wrong he had been. The barrio wasn’t just about gang life or danger. It was about community, loyalty, and survival. The people he had once judged were now his family, and he was part of something bigger than himself.

The Future

By the six-month mark, Ricardo had fully integrated into his new life. His tattoos covered most of his arms and chest, marking him as a man of the barrio. Valeria’s pregnancy was moving along smoothly, and Ricardo had already started thinking about names for their child, wanting something that honored both his past and his new life. His lowrider was his pride and joy, and he spent hours working on it, making sure it was perfect for when he cruised through the neighborhood with Valeria by his side.

The old Clint was long gone. Ricardo had embraced his new identity, realizing that the world was far more complex than he had once thought. His racism, his ignorance—they had no place in the man he had become. The barrio, the gang, the people—this was his life now, and he wouldn’t have it any other way.

As he lay in bed one night, his hand resting on Valeria’s growing belly, Ricardo smiled to himself. He had found a life he never knew he wanted, and while it wasn’t easy, it was real. The streets, the tattoos, the gang life, and now, fatherhood—this was his world. And for the first time in his life, he felt like he truly belonged.

Ricardo’s Next Few Months: A Deeper Dive into the Cholo Lifestyle

As the months went on, Ricardo found himself further entrenched in the rich, complex world of cholo culture. It wasn’t just about the surface-level aesthetics—the tattoos, the lowriders, the clothes—it was a deeply rooted lifestyle, steeped in family, tradition, loyalty, and survival. Ricardo had always admired the toughness and resilience of the people around him, but the more he lived it, the more he came to understand how much pride and honor there was in living the cholo life.

The Culture and Struggles of Cholo Life

The barrio wasn’t easy. Making money, staying safe, and trying to build a life wasn’t something that came naturally or without struggle. Ricardo saw firsthand how hard people worked to keep food on the table and protect their families from the dangers of the streets. Many of his friends and fellow Hijos del Sol members worked long hours in blue-collar jobs—construction, auto repair, security—but the pay wasn’t always enough.

Ricardo tried to keep things legitimate, working at a local mechanic shop where he specialized in lowrider customization. The shop wasn’t fancy, but it had a reputation in the neighborhood for doing quality work on cars, and Ricardo enjoyed the satisfaction of transforming beat-up old vehicles into gleaming, bouncing lowriders that turned heads on the streets. But even with this work, the money wasn’t always enough. There were times when bills piled up, and the temptation to make some quick cash on the side crept in.

The Hijos del Sol were no strangers to this. They operated in a gray area between legitimate work and crime, doing what they had to in order to survive. Sometimes that meant running small-time drug deals or protecting local businesses from outside threats. Ricardo tried to stay away from the more dangerous aspects of the gang’s operations, but there were moments when he found himself slipping into the old ways—delivering packages, watching over transactions, even handling weapons to ensure the crew stayed safe.

One night, as Ricardo sat on the hood of his lowrider, looking out over the city lights, José, his tattoo artist and close friend, joined him with a cold beer in hand. “You ever think about getting out?” José asked, taking a long sip.

Ricardo shook his head, eyes narrowing as he thought about it. “Nah, man. This is home now. Ain’t no running from it.” He felt the weight of his decision settling in. He was Ricardo now, through and through. The old Clint couldn’t handle the pressures of this life, but Ricardo could. Still, it wasn’t easy.

“Yeah,” José said, nodding. “Just don’t let the streets pull you under too deep, hermano. We all gotta find a way to make it out, or at least stay afloat.”

Ricardo nodded in agreement. He knew José was right. The gang life was always there, pulling at him, tempting him with quick cash and respect. But with Valeria pregnant and the future of his family on his mind, Ricardo wanted more than just survival—he wanted to build something legitimate, something that would last.

Physical Changes: Bulking Up and Embracing a New Look

Over these months, Ricardo’s appearance began to shift. The tattoos covering his arms, chest, and neck were now a full part of his identity, but his body itself was changing too. He started hitting the gym more often, bulking up his frame to match the tough, street-hardened image he projected. His once lean and wiry body grew thicker, his muscles more defined, as he focused on strength training and conditioning.

He spent hours at the local gym, where he met others from the neighborhood who respected him for his determination and commitment to the cholo life. The bulking up gave him a sense of control in a world where power often determined who survived and who thrived.

Along with his new physique, Ricardo decided to change his facial hair. He had always kept a thin mustache, but now, he let it grow out into a fuller goatee, adding to his more rugged, commanding presence. The goatee framed his face in a way that made him look older, tougher, and even more intimidating—a man who had fully settled into his role in the barrio. His hair, which had once been long and shaggy in his Clint days, was now neatly cropped, often hidden under a bandana or fitted cap.

The locals noticed the changes. “Lookin’ good, Ricardo,” Valeria would tease him, running her fingers over his growing muscles. “You’re gettin’ all big and tough, huh?”

Ricardo would smirk, feeling the pride that came with the compliments. He wasn’t the same man who had stumbled into this life. He was growing, evolving, becoming stronger in both body and mind.

The Richness of Cholo Culture

With Valeria by his side, Ricardo found himself diving deeper into the traditions of the cholo lifestyle. It wasn’t just about the cars and the tattoos—it was about the tight-knit community, the unspoken code of loyalty, and the respect for family. Valeria would often take him to her family’s gatherings, where they would cook large meals, share stories, and celebrate their heritage. The older women in the family would tease Ricardo, calling him “el gringo” in jest, but they welcomed him as one of their own.

Ricardo learned more about the significance of things he had once dismissed as “just culture.” He came to respect the way the cholo lifestyle embraced both pride in heritage and the struggle to survive in a society that often looked down on them. There were traditions tied to the clothes, the music, even the way people walked and talked. And though Ricardo had been hesitant to fully accept it at first, he now found comfort in these rituals.

It was in these moments that Ricardo began to fully realize how wrong his past prejudices had been. His time as Clint—when he had held onto racist, stereotypical views of Latino culture—now seemed embarrassingly ignorant. He had once believed that gangs and the cholo lifestyle were all about crime, laziness, and danger. But now, he saw the richness of the culture, the importance of family, and the pride that came with surviving against the odds.

There were still moments when Ricardo would catch himself thinking about how far he’d come. He’d think back to those days in Montana when he had believed in small-town, close-minded ideals. But now, with each passing day, those old thoughts faded more and more. This was his life now, and he knew he had grown beyond those old ways of thinking.

Keeping in Touch with Montana: Letters from Ricardo and the Others

Every once in a while, Ricardo would hear from the other men who had been part of the transformation. Lance and Clint—now living their new lives—kept in touch sporadically. The letters were short, more like updates than deep conversations, but they were reminders that the bond they shared was still alive.

Lance, who had fully embraced life as Eric in New York, wrote about his thriving career in finance, the new relationships he was building, and how much he was enjoying the fast-paced, high-end lifestyle. “New York is wild, hermano. Can’t even imagine going back to that small-town life now. You wouldn’t recognize me,” he’d say, sometimes adding in details about his personal life that made Ricardo laugh.

Clint—now living as Ricardo in Montana—would also send updates, though his letters were more down-to-earth. “Life on the ranch is peaceful, man,” he’d write. “Never thought I’d enjoy it, but there’s something real about this simple life. Sometimes I even catch myself missing the craziness of Vegas, but I think I’m good here.”

And then there were the letters from Ricardo, the man now living as Clint in Montana. They were brief, filled with stories about the ranch, the wide open spaces, and the quiet life. “I didn’t think I’d like it out here, but damn, man, it’s growing on me. Kinda nice to not always be lookin’ over my shoulder, you know?”

Ricardo would chuckle at these letters, imagining his former self now walking the same Montana streets, working the same ranch he had once called home. The irony wasn’t lost on him, but there was a strange comfort in knowing that his old life had continued on, even if he wasn’t living it anymore.

As Ricardo settled deeper into his new life in the barrio, he knew that the challenges would never stop, but neither would his growth. He was building a family, finding his place, and becoming the man he was always meant to be. With Valeria by his side, their baby on the way, and the respect he had earned in the neighborhood, Ricardo felt more at home than ever. The streets had hardened him, shaped him, but they had also shown him the richness of life, love, and culture.

This was his life now—and he wouldn’t trade it for anything.

Eric’s Life: Falling in Love and Embracing His New Identity

As the months passed, Eric (formerly Lance) fully embraced his life in New York City. The skyscrapers, bustling streets, and relentless energy of the city became his playground. Eric had left behind the cowboy life, trading in boots and plaid shirts for tailored suits, expensive watches, and fine cigars. His transition into the world of finance was seamless, and he quickly thrived in his career, earning respect, wealth, and influence. But beyond his professional success, Eric experienced a personal transformation that went even deeper.

Eric had always known, deep down, that there was something more to his desires than what his previous life as Lance allowed. And now, in the heart of New York’s vibrant LGBTQ+ scene, Eric was free to explore that part of himself fully. He was no longer restrained by the rigid expectations of his past—he was a confident, powerful man who was unashamed of his sexuality, his desires, and his place in the world.

Falling in Love with the City—and Men

In New York, Eric found himself drawn to the vibrant nightlife, the sophisticated gay clubs, the rooftop lounges where men in sharp suits gathered to smoke cigars, drink top-shelf whiskey, and mingle. These were the places where Eric truly came alive, where he could be himself without judgment or hesitation. He had quickly earned a reputation as a charismatic, successful man who was always surrounded by admirers. And he loved it.

But Eric’s life wasn’t just about fleeting moments of passion—it was about a deeper connection to the world he now inhabited. One evening, at an exclusive party held at a luxury penthouse overlooking the city, Eric met a man named Julian. Julian was everything Eric found attractive: tall, broad-shouldered, and impeccably dressed in a custom suit that screamed wealth and power. They locked eyes from across the room, and the chemistry was instant.

Julian approached Eric, offering him a drink. “I’ve seen you around,” he said with a smirk. “You always seem to have the room’s attention.”

Eric raised an eyebrow, taking the drink with a grin. “Guess I’m hard to miss,” he replied, his voice smooth and confident. They spent the rest of the night talking, laughing, and flirting. Julian was smart, ambitious, and shared Eric’s love for the finer things in life. They discussed business, their favorite cigars, and, of course, their mutual attraction to each other.

By the end of the night, Eric and Julian found themselves alone on the penthouse balcony, the city lights twinkling below. Their conversation had slowed, and the tension between them was palpable. Eric leaned in, his lips brushing against Julian’s as they kissed under the stars. It was passionate, intoxicating, and exactly what Eric had been searching for.

Over the next few months, Eric and Julian grew close, but not in the traditional sense. They shared a deep connection, but neither of them was interested in monogamy. They both had other lovers, other flings, and they were perfectly happy with their arrangement. Eric had fallen in love—not just with Julian, but with the freedom to love multiple men, to experience passion without the constraints of exclusivity.

Embracing His Identity as a Non-Monogamous Homosexual Man

Eric quickly realized that he was happiest when he could indulge in multiple relationships. He wasn’t built for the traditional confines of monogamy, and the men he surrounded himself with understood that. His relationship with Julian was the most significant, but there were others—many others—who drifted in and out of his life, offering different kinds of connections.

There was Alex, a finance executive who shared Eric’s love for cigars and late-night talks about business. They would meet after work at a high-end cigar lounge, sharing drinks and conversation before heading back to Eric’s luxury apartment for nights of passion. Alex was charming and confident, and their relationship was built on mutual respect, but it was never exclusive.

Then there was Leo, a younger man Eric met at a rooftop party. Leo was a model, carefree and adventurous, with a body that could stop traffic. He was wild, spontaneous, and full of energy—everything Eric loved in a fling. They spent weekends together, partying, dancing, and enjoying each other’s company without any promises or expectations.

Eric loved the variety, the excitement of knowing he could have deep conversations with one man one night and wild, uninhibited sex with another the next. He wasn’t afraid to explore his desires fully, embracing his identity as a male homosexual who thrived on the freedom of non-monogamy. His relationships weren’t about commitment—they were about experience, pleasure, and living life to the fullest.

“I’m not ashamed of it,” Eric would often tell Julian or Alex. “I love who I am, and I love living this life. Why should I settle for just one person when I can have it all?”

The men in his life understood this, and many of them felt the same. They weren’t looking for a traditional relationship—they wanted the freedom to explore, to indulge in their desires without the weight of commitment. And Eric, with his wealth, charm, and magnetic personality, was the perfect partner for that kind of life.

The City Becomes His Playground

Eric’s non-monogamous lifestyle wasn’t limited to private moments—it was part of who he was in every aspect of his life. He frequented the best gay clubs in Manhattan, where he would often be seen with different men on his arm, drinking champagne, smoking cigars, and dancing under the flashing lights. The city became his playground, and he reveled in the attention he received.

On any given night, Eric could be found at an exclusive rooftop party, surrounded by beautiful men, his presence commanding the room. He would lean back in a plush leather chair, sipping whiskey, and watching the city skyline, knowing that he had everything he ever wanted. And when the party ended, he would often leave with one or two men, knowing the night wasn’t over yet

Eric’s apartment, a luxurious penthouse overlooking Central Park, became a revolving door of lovers and friends. The mornings were spent lounging in bed with whoever had stayed the night, the smell of cigar smoke lingering in the air, the sound of the city a constant hum in the background.

He had fully embraced the fact that he was a man who enjoyed sex, who craved passion, and who wasn’t tied down to any one person. He loved his life, loved the freedom that came with it, and loved the men who came in and out of his orbit. And the more he embraced this lifestyle, the more fulfilled he became.

The Men in His Life

Julian remained his most significant lover, and their relationship was built on mutual understanding. They would often joke about their other flings, knowing that neither of them was jealous. “So who’s the lucky guy tonight?” Julian would ask with a grin, knowing Eric had no shortage of admirers.

“Just another pretty face,” Eric would reply, smirking. “But don’t worry—you’re still my favorite.”

Alex, with his business acumen and sharp wit, remained a constant in Eric’s life. They shared a bond that went beyond sex, discussing deals, the stock market, and future business ventures. Alex understood Eric’s drive, his ambition, and his need for freedom. “You’re a force of nature,” Alex would often say. “I’ve never met anyone like you.”

Leo, the carefree model, brought excitement and spontaneity to Eric’s life. With Leo, there were no rules, no expectations—just fun, passion, and living in the moment. They would dance until dawn, drink until they couldn’t stand, and collapse into bed, laughing and loving without a care in the world.

Fully Integrated

As the months rolled on, Eric had fully integrated into his life as a non-monogamous homosexual man. He was unapologetic about who he was, and he wore his identity proudly. His relationships, though unconventional, were fulfilling in ways he hadn’t expected. He had love, passion, and connection—but on his terms. And that was what made him truly happy.

Eric was no longer Lance, the simple cowboy from Montana. He had shed that identity long ago, stepping into a world of power, wealth, and sexual freedom. He loved his life, loved the men who came into it, and loved the man he had become.

As he looked out over the city one evening, his arm around Julian, a cigar in his hand, Eric couldn’t help but smile. He had found his place in the world, and it was exactly where he was meant to be.

The conversations between Ricardo, Clint, and Lance were few and far between at first, but as time passed, they became more frequent, serving as a reminder of the strange, life-changing journey they had all experienced. These conversations were marked by a sense of mutual understanding, even if they didn’t see each other in person. They were now living vastly different lives, but the bond between them—the shared experience of transformation—kept them connected in a way that no one else could understand.

The First Conversation After the Transformation

About a month after the initial transformation, Ricardo (formerly Clint) received a call from Lance (now Eric). He was sitting in the driver’s seat of his lowrider, smoking a cigarette and watching the kids play soccer in the barrio when his phone buzzed.

“Hey, hermano,” Eric’s smooth, confident voice came through the line, a far cry from the simple, drawling tone that Lance used to have. “How’s life in Vegas treatin’ you?”

Ricardo chuckled, flicking the ash from his cigarette out the window. “It’s… different, man. Real different. But I’m good. How ‘bout you? New York treating you like a king?”

Eric laughed, and Ricardo could almost hear the smirk in his voice. “You could say that. I’ve never felt more alive. The city’s wild, the business is booming, and… well, I’m not exactly hurting for company, if you know what I mean.”

“Yeah?” Ricardo raised an eyebrow, though he wasn’t surprised. Eric had fully embraced his new life as a high-powered financier, and the nightlife in New York was likely a dream for him. “Sounds like you’re lovin’ it. Must be a far cry from ridin’ bulls back in Montana, huh?”

“Man, don’t even remind me,” Eric replied, the laughter fading into a more serious tone. “I’m never going back to that. I love who I am now—this life suits me.”

Ricardo nodded to himself, feeling a sense of camaraderie but also a twinge of envy. Eric seemed to be thriving effortlessly, while Ricardo was still figuring things out. “That’s good, man. I’m… still settling in here, y’know? The barrio life ain’t easy. But it’s real. I’m learning a lot about myself. And Valeria—she’s pregnant.”

There was a pause on the line. “Damn, hermano. That’s big. How you feelin’ about that?”

Ricardo hesitated for a moment. “I don’t know, man. I never thought I’d be a dad, especially not here, in this life. But it feels… right. Like this is where I’m supposed to be.”

Eric’s voice softened. “You’ll be a good dad, Ricardo. Just make sure you keep your head straight. I know life in the barrio can pull you in all sorts of directions. Don’t let it drag you down.”

“Yeah, I know,” Ricardo replied, taking a drag of his cigarette. “I’m trying to keep it clean, but it’s hard, y’know? The money ain’t always there, and the gang life—it’s always pullin’ at you. But I’m doin’ my best.

“I get that,” Eric said. “But you’ve got more to lose now. Just keep your eyes on what matters. And hey, if you ever need anything… I’ve got connections out here. You’re family now, hermano.”

Ricardo smiled, though Eric couldn’t see it. “Thanks, man. I appreciate that.”

The call ended shortly after, but the conversation stayed with Ricardo. He felt a sense of pride knowing that despite their different paths, the bond between them hadn’t faded.

A Call from Clint

A few weeks later, Ricardo received another call—this time from Clint, who had been living as Ricardo back in Montana. It was a Saturday afternoon, and Ricardo was in his garage, working on his lowrider, covered in grease and sweat.

The phone buzzed, and he answered without checking the caller ID. “What’s up?”

“Hey, man. It’s Clint.” The voice on the other end sounded quieter, more thoughtful, like a man who had settled into a simpler life.

Ricardo leaned back against his car, wiping his hands on a rag. “Clint? Or… Ricardo, I guess?” he said with a smirk.

“Yeah, yeah,” Clint chuckled. “Still getting used to that. But man, I gotta tell ya… this life? It’s not so bad. I never thought I’d say it, but I think I like bein’ on the ranch. It’s peaceful out here. Ain’t like Vegas.”

Ricardo tilted his head, genuinely curious. “Really? I figured you’d hate it, man. I know I used to think ranch life was boring as hell.”

“I did at first,” Clint admitted. “But… there’s something real about it. I’m learning things about myself. It’s honest work. And the people out here, they don’t ask for much. They just wanna live a good life. I’ve got respect for that.”

Ricardo nodded, feeling an odd sense of connection to his old life, even if it wasn’t his anymore. “Yeah, I can see that. Maybe we swapped at the right time, huh? You were meant for that life. And me… well, I’m figuring this one out.”

“Sounds like you’re doin’ good, though,” Clint said. “Heard from Lance lately?”

“Yeah, I talked to him a bit ago,” Ricardo replied. “He’s living the high life in New York. Said he’s got it all—money, success, the works. But you know him… he always wanted somethin’ bigger.”

Clint chuckled. “Yeah, Lance was never the type to sit still. Good for him, though. He sounds like he’s doin’ better than all of us.”

“Yeah, I guess so,” Ricardo said, though there was no bitterness in his voice. “But we’ve all got our own paths, man. I’m good here. Got a kid on the way, a woman I love, and a community that’s got my back. Can’t ask for much more than that.”

“That’s true,” Clint said softly. “Life’s what you make of it, right?”

“Exactly,” Ricardo agreed. “So what’s next for you? You stickin’ around the ranch?”

“For now,” Clint replied. “I’ve got no reason to leave. It’s strange, but I think I’ve found somethin’ here. Maybe I’ll even stick around long-term. Who knows?”

Ricardo smiled, feeling a sense of closure. “Well, whatever happens, man, we’ll see where we all end up in a year. Maybe we’ll swap back. Maybe not. But it’s good to know we’re all doing okay.”

“Yeah,” Clint agreed. “It’s good to know.”

A Group Call: Checking In

Six months into their new lives, the three of them decided to get on a group call to check in. It was late in the evening, and Ricardo was sitting on his porch, watching the sun set over the barrio. His phone buzzed, and the group chat lit up with notifications.

“Yo, fellas,” Eric’s voice came through first. “What’s good? How’s life treatin’ y’all?”

Ricardo chuckled. “Same as always, hermano. Got the lowrider tuned up, the baby on the way. I’m keepin’ busy. What about you? Still tearing it up in New York?”

“You know it,” Eric replied, his voice full of swagger. “Business is booming, and the nightlife’s even better. I’ve got a few… connections I’m keepin’ busy with. Let’s just say life is good.”

Clint joined in. “Sounds like you’re lovin’ it out there. Meanwhile, I’m over here on the ranch, waking up at the crack of dawn to feed the animals. Ain’t glamorous, but it’s honest work.”

Ricardo leaned back, smiling. “Gotta say, I never thought I’d hear you talkin’ about ranch life like that. Guess we’ve all changed, huh?”

“Guess so,” Clint replied, his voice warm. “But I think it’s good. We all ended up where we’re supposed to be, even if it wasn’t what we planned.”

Eric took a drag from his cigar, the sound of city traffic faint in the background. “That’s the truth. And who knows what’s gonna happen when the year’s up? Maybe we’ll want to swap back, maybe we won’t.”

“Yeah,” Ricardo mused. “But right now? I’m good where I’m at. Got a family to think about now, and this life… it’s tough, but it’s mine.”

Clint and Eric both nodded in agreement, even if they couldn’t see each other. There was an unspoken understanding between them now, a bond that went beyond their transformations. They were living different lives, but they were still connected by something deeper.

“Well,” Eric said, breaking the silence, “no matter what happens, we’ll see each other soon enough. For now, though… I’m enjoying this ride.”

“Ain’t that the truth,” Ricardo added with a smile.

And with that, the call ended, leaving each of them to return to their respective lives—lives they had never imagined but had come to embrace fully.

September: Nearing the End of the Year

As September rolled around, the approaching one-year mark weighed heavily on the minds of Ricardo, Clint, and Eric. Each of them had spent nearly a year living in someone else’s shoes—learning, growing, and changing in ways they hadn’t expected. The transformation had been more than physical; it had redefined who they were as people. And now, with the end in sight, they found themselves contemplating whether they would go back to their old lives or continue living as their transformed selves.

Ricardo (formerly Clint): Embracing Fatherhood

For Ricardo, life in the barrio had solidified his sense of identity. His transformation wasn’t just a temporary experiment—it had become his truth. Over the past year, he had built a life filled with love, community, and purpose. Most significantly, Ricardo was now a father.

In August, Valeria gave birth to their son, whom they named Mateo. The birth had been a profound experience for Ricardo, one that further cemented his commitment to his new life. Holding his newborn son for the first time, the weight of fatherhood hit him hard. This is my family now, he thought, cradling Mateo in his arms. He looked into his son’s eyes, the tiny face full of innocence and promise, and knew that he had to be the man his son would look up to.

Ricardo had become fully integrated into the barrio culture, taking pride in his tattoos, his lowrider, and the community that supported him. But now, with Mateo in his life, his priorities had shifted. He still ran with the Hijos del Sol, but he avoided the more dangerous aspects of the gang life. Valeria had been clear—she didn’t want their son growing up around the kind of violence and crime that had taken many of their friends. Ricardo agreed, promising her that he would keep their family safe.

One evening, after putting Mateo to bed, Ricardo sat on the porch of their small house, the sounds of the barrio quiet around him. The air was warm, the smell of street food lingering in the air. He pulled out his phone and sent a message to the group chat with Clint and Eric.

Ricardo: Yo, hermanos. You ready for Vegas next month?

It didn’t take long for the responses to come through.

Eric: Hell yeah. Can’t wait to catch up. Feels like forever.

Clint: Same here. I’m ready to leave this cold-ass ranch. The cowboy life ain’t for me, man.

Ricardo smiled at Clint’s response. He could imagine Clint out there in Montana, dealing with the harsh cold and the endless responsibilities of running a ranch. Ricardo remembered that life—the early mornings, the hard labor, the isolation. He didn’t miss it.

Ricardo: Yeah, I don’t miss that life either. But I gotta tell you—things have changed a lot here. I’ve got a son now.

The chat went silent for a moment before Eric responded.

Eric: Damn, man! Congrats! How’s it feel being a dad?

Ricardo leaned back in his chair, thinking about how much his life had shifted in the past year.

Ricardo: It’s crazy, man. Hard, but good. Mateo’s everything to me. It’s wild how much things change when you’ve got someone dependin’ on you.

Clint: That’s huge, Ricardo. I can’t even imagine that, but it sounds like you’re killin’ it.

Ricardo: It ain’t easy, but yeah, I’m doin’ my best. How ‘bout you, Clint? You sound ready to leave the ranch.

Clint’s response came quickly.

Clint: Man, you don’t even know. The ranch life is tough. Up at the crack of dawn, workin’ till dark, and it’s cold as hell here. I’m used to Montana now, but it’s been rough. I don’t think I could do this forever. I’m lookin’ forward to gettin’ back to the city, maybe figure out somethin’ else.

Ricardo felt a pang of sympathy. He knew how hard ranch life could be, and he understood why Clint was eager to leave it behind.

Ricardo: Yeah, I hear you, man. I can’t imagine goin’ back to that either. I’m settled here now. This life? It’s mine.

Eric chimed in.

Eric: You’re both nuts. I’ve been livin’ the high life in New York—cigars, suits, the best clubs. I’m tellin’ you, I’m not goin’ back to that simple life. I’m stayin’ as Eric. This is who I am now.

Ricardo smirked at Eric’s message. He wasn’t surprised that Eric had fully embraced his new identity. From the start, it had been clear that Eric loved the power, the wealth, and the freedom that came with his new life. And why wouldn’t he? New York was the perfect playground for someone like him.

The new Clint (formerly Ricardo): The Struggles of Ranch Life

Meanwhile, Clint, who had been living as Ricardo in Montana, was growing increasingly tired of the rancher’s life. When he had first taken on the role, there was a novelty to it—working the land, riding horses, and being in nature. But after almost a year, the daily grind had worn him down. The harsh Montana winters, the long hours, and the isolation made him long for something else.

Clint had come to appreciate the quiet beauty of the land, but it wasn’t enough to keep him there. He missed the energy of the city, the camaraderie of the barrio, and the warmth of the people he used to know. I was never meant to be a cowboy, Clint thought to himself as he mucked out the stables one cold morning. I don’t know how Ricardo lived like this.

The real Ricardo had sent him messages every now and then, checking in on how life was treating him. And while Clint appreciated the sentiment, he couldn’t help but envy the fact that the real Ricardo was living his life in the barrio, surrounded by warmth, family, and a community that supported him.

One night, after a particularly grueling day, Clint sat in front of the fireplace, nursing a glass of whiskey. The wind howled outside, and the snow fell heavily against the windows. He pulled out his phone and opened the group chat with Ricardo and Eric.

Clint: Man, I can’t wait to get back to Vegas next month. I’m done with this ranch life. It’s too damn cold.

Ricardo’s response came quickly.

Ricardo: I feel you, man. That life ain’t easy.

Eric: I still can’t believe you’ve been out there this long, Clint. I’d have gone crazy by now.

Clint chuckled at the messages, though he knew Eric was right. It was time for a change.

Eric (formerly Lance): Living the High Life

Eric had fully embraced his life as a successful, non-monogamous homosexual man in New York City. The transformation had been everything he hadn’t known he needed. He was thriving in the fast-paced world of finance, surrounded by wealth, luxury, and endless opportunities for pleasure. His relationships were numerous and fluid, with no commitments tying him down. He loved the freedom, the power, and the ability to indulge in every desire he had.

As October approached, Eric found himself reflecting on the year. He couldn’t imagine going back to being Lance, the simple cowboy. That life felt so far away, so distant from who he had become. I’m not that guy anymore, he thought to himself as he walked down Wall Street, dressed in his sharpest suit, a cigar tucked into his breast pocket. I’m Eric now. And this is who I’m meant to be.

When Ricardo mentioned in the group chat that he had become a father, Eric felt a strange mix of admiration and relief. He was happy for Ricardo, but he knew that wasn’t the life he wanted. Fatherhood, commitment—those things didn’t suit him. Eric was all about freedom, experiences, and living in the moment.

Eric: Congrats again, Ricardo. I’m glad fatherhood’s workin’ out for you, but man, I’m stickin’ with my non-monogamous lifestyle. No kids for me.

Ricardo laughed at the message, though he respected Eric’s choice. They were all living different lives now, each embracing their paths in their own way.

Preparing for Vegas

As October drew nearer, the three men grew more eager to meet back in Las Vegas. They had all changed so much, and the idea of coming together to reflect on their year of transformation filled them with anticipation.

For Ricardo, the return to Vegas was bittersweet. He loved his life in the barrio, but he was curious to see how Clint and Eric had changed. He also wanted to show them that his transformation was more than skin deep—that he had truly become Ricardo, the cholo, the father, the man who had built a life in the heart of Las Vegas.

Clint was counting down the days until he could leave Montana. The ranch had taught him a lot about hard work and perseverance, but it had also shown him that this wasn’t the life he wanted. He was eager to reconnect with his old friends and figure out what came next.

And Eric? Eric was thriving, living the life he had always dreamed of. But even he was curious to see how much his friends had changed. He knew they were all different now, and he wondered what their reunion would bring.

Gregor Dalton. 6’4”, 300 pounds of bad attitude and beer weight. A barrel of a man with a red-blonde beard so thick it practically had its own zip code, arms like hams, and a gut that hung over his duty belt like a second badge. His scalp was half-bald, ringed with tufts of sunburned orange hair slicked down with sweat and neglect. His eyes—cold, small, pale—hid under thick brows and a permanent scowl. His voice was a mix of gravel and bile, often used to bark orders or chew someone out, especially if they were brown and on the wrong side of the fence.

He wasn’t just a border patrol agent—he was the border patrol agent. A legend. Gruff. Abusive. Proud of it. Everyone on the force knew not to cross him, and no one wanted to ride with him on long shifts unless they liked hearing words that made their stomachs churn.

He didn’t just detain migrants—he broke them down.

“Get on the fuckin’ ground!”

“You think you can just sneak into my country?”

“You speak English? No? Then shut up!”

He’d slam their faces into the dirt, zip-tie them too tight, make them sit in the sun for hours. Sometimes he’d flick his cigarette ash at them. He didn’t care if they were women or kids. If they crossed the line, they were trespassers, criminals, filth.

“Don’t wanna get treated like animals?” he’d growl. “Then stay in your cage.”

And yet he believed he was doing good. He saw the job as sacred. Saw the border as a wall between order and chaos. He hated coyotes—those smug bastards who sold hope and death in equal measure. And he hated how the routes kept changing, how every time they cracked down on one tunnel or one trail, five more popped up like snakes from the dirt.

So when the higher-ups summoned him to the black site outside El Paso, he thought it was for commendation. Another medal. Another pat on the back.

Instead, they told him:

“You’re going under.”

Gregor blinked. “The hell does that mean?”

“You’re being placed in Rancho Silencio,” the man in the windbreaker said. “Durango. Rural town. The cartel’s established new smuggling paths through the region. People. Drugs. Coyotes are adapting. You’re going in to learn how they work. Blend in. Observe. Report.”

He laughed so hard he wheezed. “You want me to play fuckin’ dress-up as some beaner hillbilly and sniff out tunnels?”

“You’ll be transformed.”

Gregor’s face went dark.

“This is ‘cause I broke that Guatemalan’s jaw last month, huh?” he hissed. “Because I made that Honduran bitch piss herself when I yanked her kid?”

Silence.

“We’ve selected you because you’re effective,” the suit said flatly. “But to continue being effective, you must become the enemy.”

The rage boiled in him. Become the enemy. He clenched his fists, chest heaving under his sweat-stained undershirt.

“You’re gonna turn Big G into some taco-slinging campesino. This is humiliation.”

The female tech interrupted, calm and clinical. “This is necessary.”

They stripped him down. Watched him grumble and spit as he peeled off his uniform, revealing rolls of pale flesh, sunburnt and freckled. His arms looked like raw roast pork, glistening with sweat and red hair. His legs were thick and hairy, with thighs that chafed with every step. He stood there in a paper gown, his manhood hanging fat and pale between his legs, red bush tangled above.

Gregor had never felt more exposed.

“Drink this,” the tech said, handing him a glowing green vial.

He hesitated. Then, bitterly, he growled, “Fuck it.”

The potion burned like molten metal. It hit his gut like a hammer and exploded outward. He doubled over, gasping, clutching the table as his insides twisted like a snake was coiling in his belly.

“AHHH—fuck—what the fuck—!”

Then came the change.

His massive frame crumpled, bones cracking like firewood under an axe. His spine shrank. His gut melted, rolling away into nothing as his chest and shoulders collapsed inward, losing bulk and girth. His legs shortened, cracked, reshaped—his feet pulling back like a tape measure snapping shut.

“¡Madre… MADREEEEE!” he screamed, in Spanish, the voice pouring from his lips like it had always been there.

He tried to say What the hell? but what came out was:

“¿Qué… qué verga me está pasando, güey?”

His hands were different now—smaller, darker, callused in places they never were. His skin rippled with heat, peeling away layers of pink and freckle, shifting to a golden brown, then deeper. Dusty. Earth-worn. The skin of someone who’d worked under the Mexican sun their whole life.

His red beard began to itch—then fall out in clumps. He gasped, watching the wiry orange hairs drift down like autumn leaves. In their place, black stubble sprouted fast and thick. His scalp—once balding—tingled with pressure as black hair burst from it, dense and bristled, styled like it had just been clipped by a guy named Chuy who charged fifty pesos and used a straight razor.

Gregor’s lips swelled slightly, his cheekbones sharpened, and his nose broadened at the bridge. He stumbled forward, panting, sweat pouring off his body. His gut was gone. His back was lean, shoulders tight. His thighs were firm now, strong, compact. He stood maybe 5’6”, with the body of a man who carried bricks, not a badge.

And then—

His teeth began to fall out.

He howled. The sound was animal. He spat blood, watching his old crooked, yellow teeth hit the floor in a mess of gum tissue and drool.

“¡NO! ¡NOOO!”

New teeth grew in fast—pushing out sharp and white. A bit uneven. Real. Not American dental perfection. Teeth that had chewed tortillas, sunflower seeds, and weed stems.

His cock had changed, too. No longer pale and chubby, it was darker, narrower, but heavy and veiny, with thick, swinging balls that hung low between his thighs like they’d been there for decades. When he moved, they bounced with that familiar masculine sway—but they weren’t his. Not Gregor’s.

He panted. The stench of his new sweat filled the room—richer, muskier. A body that didn’t wear deodorant, that worked hard, that smelled like sex and dust and heat.

When he opened his mouth again, he didn’t speak English. He couldn’t.

“Yo… yo soy… Álvaro… ¿no?” he whispered.

The techs nodded. “Yes. Álvaro Medina. Born in Rancho Silencio. You’ve smoked weed since you were fifteen. You work odd jobs. You know how to listen. You don’t draw attention.”

They handed him jeans. A faded brown flannel. Cheap cowboy boots. A belt with a cracked leather buckle.

He dressed slowly. Every motion felt wrong—but familiar. He reached down and tugged the crotch of his jeans up. The denim hugged his thighs. His new bulge sat heavy between his legs. When he walked, it swung.

The mirror didn’t show Big G.

It showed a short Mexican man in his early 30s. Warm brown eyes, black hair in a clean fade, a dusting of stubble on his cheeks and upper lip. A mouth that naturally turned down at the corners. The face of a man who’d seen enough.

His new gait was quiet, nimble. No longer a stomping bully. His shoulders rolled differently. He looked… wary. He looked real.

They handed him a joint.

“You’re gonna need it,” the tech said. “You’re Álvaro now.”

He lit it without thinking. Held the smoke deep. Exhaled slow.

And as the high settled in his lungs, he heard the whisper of coyotes in the back of his head—names, faces, paths carved through dry creeks and abandoned tunnels. His mission pulsed behind his temples like a forgotten dream.

Gregor was still in there, buried, raging.

But Álvaro Medina took another drag and muttered in a voice thick with smoke and certainty:

“Vamos a ver cómo chingados se mueven esta vez.”

The first time Álvaro caught his reflection—really caught it—was when he stepped into the narrow metal washroom outside the facility, barefoot, the floor cold beneath his smaller, roughened soles. The joint still clung between his fingers, burning slow. The flannel shirt they gave him stuck to his damp back, a film of sweat caught between cloth and skin. His new jeans hugged his thighs, the denim still stiff, smelling faintly of old soap and dust. And underneath, tight against his hips, a pair of faded gray briefs that had clearly seen years of wash. They were a bit snug, the elastic curling slightly, pressing in around the base of his cock where his thick new shaft curved to the left, balls hanging low and pendulous in the cramped pouch.

His hand trembled as he pushed the door open. He wasn’t used to feeling small.

Everything felt too big now. The ceiling seemed higher. The sink farther. The stall too tall, too cold. His gait—once a wide lumbering stomp—had narrowed. His hips shifted differently, his knees bent more. He moved like a man built for maneuvering, for ducking under fences and sliding through brush, not for throwing weight around. The boots clicked on the tile with a sharper rhythm, his steps lighter, quieter.

The mirror above the sink wasn’t kind. But it was honest.

He stepped close.

A man stared back—rounder face, sun-warmed skin, eyes dark and rich with shadow. His lips were slightly chapped, the corners cracked. His stubble was thick, black, hugging his jawline tight. His ears sat closer to his head. His brow furrowed differently now—less harsh, more suspicious, like someone who’d spent years watching his back.

“I… I look like I sell oranges on the side of the road,” he muttered in Spanish.

And he hadn’t meant to say it that way.

He blinked, heart stuttering. The words weren’t English. They weren’t translated either. They were the only thing that came out. Pure reflex.

He dropped the joint, squashed it under his boot. The smoke lingered in the room, earthy and sweet. He grimaced.

“I hate this shit,” he said aloud, again in Spanish. “Smells like dead grass and cheap decisions.”

He was still aware of Big G—Gregor—in this moment. Could still feel the anger curling in his chest. Could still remember the way he used to glare down at migrants, sneer at addicts. He remembered slamming a kid into the hood of the truck for lighting a blunt during processing. He’d spat on the floor and called him trash.

And now he stood in a pair of borrowed briefs, smoke curling around his stubble, lungs filled with that same junk, a thick weight between his thighs that didn’t belong to him, in a stranger’s body that felt like home.

He stared at his hand. Callused in different places. Fingers longer. Nails different. He flexed.

Then reached up, running his fingers along his jaw, over the dark stubble. His beard used to be coarse, a wild fire of red. Now it was tightly packed and felt like velvet thorns. His scalp—he rubbed it, gritting his teeth—thick with hair. His bald patch was gone. He had a fade now. A damn fade.

He chuckled bitterly, still in Spanish.

“I used to mock guys with hair like this. Fuckin’ gang bangers. Now I look like I just stepped out of a cantina with two grams of coke in my sock.”

He ran water into the sink. Splashed his face. Watched the beads roll down his darker skin. It clung differently. Held heat longer. Smelled different too—earthy, like clay and sweat.

His hand slid instinctively down to the waistband of his briefs.

“Dios…” he muttered, palming the weight of his new package. “These balls are gonna kill my back.”

They were heavy. Long, meaty, pulled low by gravity and heat. His cock lay thick against his thigh, curved just enough that he had to adjust it in the jeans every time he moved. He shifted awkwardly, pressing a hand against his fly.

“I used to laugh at these guys walking around with their dicks swinging like they owned the world,” he muttered. “Now I walk like that.”

He pulled open the door and stepped back into the hallway. A mirror along the side wall reflected his full figure. He looked—young. Maybe early thirties. Hard years, but nothing like the red-faced monster he’d once been. He used to waddle when he walked. Now he moved. There was rhythm in his hips, a purposeful bounce in his step. His shoulders rolled with quiet confidence. His whole body said: “I’ve done time. I’ve worked hard. I know who I am.”

He didn’t.

But in about 12 hours, he would.

Because the memories were fading already.

The thoughts of Gregor—his face, his full name, his boots, the gravel of his voice—they were dissolving. Like smoke.

Already Álvaro couldn’t remember his old phone number. Or the name of his ex-wife. The memory of beating a teenager during an arrest? Blurry now. He remembered the blood. But not the name. Not the face.

He stepped outside, the air warmer now. The smell of diesel and dry grass filled his lungs

He lit another joint. Didn’t cough this time.

And then he said, in perfect, relaxed Spanish, staring out toward the hills:

“I wonder if Carlos is still working the arroyo. I bet the new path cuts north.”

He didn’t know where that thought came from.

But it felt right.

He didn’t dream.

When Álvaro woke up, his mouth was dry. A thick layer of sweat clung to his chest, his shirt twisted around his torso like he’d been rolling for hours. The fan overhead clicked rhythmically, slow, mechanical. It was early. Still dark outside the barred window. Somewhere, a rooster called in the distance, muffled by the heavy concrete walls.

He sat up, rubbing his face with both hands. His fingers felt… different. Thicker knuckles. Slight curve in the nails. His skin was darker. Dry. Familiar.

He blinked a few times and looked around. A twin mattress, a chipped sink, faded curtains with some cartoon lemons printed on them. The house was quiet, still. In the silence, there was no alarm. No sound of the city. Just birds and the faint buzz of insects warming up for the day.

His stomach growled.

He swung his legs off the bed, felt the smooth concrete under his bare soles. The fan ticked. The heat was already rising.

He scratched his chest absentmindedly—and paused.

His hand grazed over a new terrain. The skin was taut, the chest flatter, leaner than he expected. The hair there was short, sparse, wiry. Black.

He looked down, lifting his shirt. His skin was bronze, brown, sun-warmed. His abs—not ripped, but defined—tightened when he shifted. The line of black hair trailed down toward the waistband of the briefs he was wearing: grey, old, tight. They hugged his hips closely, the pouch heavy and full between his thighs. His cock rested to the left, long and relaxed, with his balls hanging like ripe fruit, already sweaty from the heat.

He breathed in slowly.

This was his body. It felt right. Familiar.

But something tugged in the back of his head. A name. A whisper.

G… Gre…

Gone. It evaporated.

He stood up, stretched, arms reaching overhead. He caught his reflection in the window glass.

Thicker neck. Buzzed black hair. Jaw square with a tight shadow of stubble that clung to his cheeks and upper lip. A small mole on his right cheekbone. Brown eyes, the kind people didn’t remember clearly but trusted anyway. His shoulders were broader now in proportion to his shorter frame—strong, solid. A man who worked with his hands.

He turned sideways. Looked at the shape of his body in the mirror on the wall. His ass had filled out, rounded and firm under the snug cotton briefs. His thighs were powerful, thighs that had carried weight and moved through tight places. His calves were muscular, legs shorter than he expected, but they moved fluidly.

He walked back and forth across the room.

Light steps. Quick. Not heavy.

His old gait—if it had existed—was gone.

He paused in front of the mirror.

“Soy… ¿Álvaro?” he asked, half-laughing, half-startled.

(“I’m… Álvaro?”)

It didn’t feel wrong. The name sat on his tongue like a worn pebble, smooth from years of use.

Then, memory struck.

A room. Cold and bright. White tiles. The hum of machines.

The transfer facility.

He saw it in flickers.

He’d been standing there in just that robe—white, thin, open at the chest. His old body had been taken from him. They’d given him clothes—used jeans, a flannel shirt rolled at the sleeves, a pair of boots dusty with wear. He’d felt it all shift, his body changing, bones cracking, voice dropping into a quick, northern accent.

There had been mirrors there, too.

He remembered standing with his arms at his sides, sweat still dripping down his back. A tech had told him, “Look natural.”

“What does that mean?” he’d asked, his voice already softer, more nasal.

“Be you. Be Álvaro,” the tech said, then lifted a camera.

He had stood, one boot forward, hand on his hip, and tilted his chin slightly. And the shutter snapped.

Flash.

Then they printed the ID.

Álvaro Medina Estrada

32 años

CURP: AEM920711HMCLSR09

Santiago Papasquiaro, Durango

The photo showed him exactly as he looked now—tired, weathered, but composed. The kind of face that had seen hard work, too much sun, and still managed to nod politely when addressed. A man who could disappear in a crowd. A man whose backstory didn’t need explanation.

He remembered walking the halls of the facility after that. His boots clicking. His shoulders naturally hunched, one hand resting on the beltline of his jeans like it had always been there. He’d spit to the side and muttered,

“Hace calor, cabrón.”

(“It’s hot as hell, man.”)

No one corrected him. It was right. His mannerisms had already changed. He scratched the back of his neck with his pinky extended slightly. He coughed after smoking and muttered a “pinche madre” like he’d been cursing that way for decades.

It wasn’t Gregor who walked out of the transfer facility. It was Álvaro.

Now, standing in the morning light of his small house, Álvaro poured water from the cracked jug into the kettle, placed it on the rusted burner, and yawned.

He didn’t miss the old voice. Or the old body.

But when he caught a flash of himself in the mirror again, he hesitated.

He touched his cheek. Rubbed his stubble.

His eyes narrowed.

“Te pareces a alguien,” he whispered to himself.

(“You look like someone…”)

But who, he couldn’t say.

He turned from the mirror. The kettle hissed.

He muttered, “Primero café… luego trabajo.”

(“First coffee… then work.”)

And Álvaro Medina got on with his day.

The morning sun pushed its way through the faded lemon-print curtains as Álvaro stood in front of the mirror, barefoot and bare-assed. The fan overhead ticked slow circles, casting lazy shadows across his chest. The heat had started already, clinging to his skin in a humid, earthy sheen. He’d just dried himself off with a threadbare towel, steam still lingering from the kettle on the stove and the quick splash-bath from the cracked basin.

His body—his body—felt loose and warm, like he’d worn it all his life. He scratched under his belly, fingers brushing over the thick black hair that fanned out from the base of his stomach and bloomed into a natural, unkempt bush. It wasn’t neat. It wasn’t trimmed. It was right. Coarse and sweaty and deeply him. His cock rested heavy against his thigh, limp and long, while his balls swung low, pendulous, their weight undeniable.

He turned, eyeing the way they hung—low and proud, sweating in the heat of the morning.

“Puta madre,” he muttered with a half-smile, lifting them in his palm. “Estos huevos cuelgan como campanas.”

(“Fucking hell. These balls hang like church bells.”)

He let them drop, and they swung, a slow, humid rhythm like two sacks of grain shifting beneath him.

He bent down to grab his briefs—gray, stretched at the waistband—and carefully stuffed himself in, adjusting his shaft so it didn’t bend awkwardly to the side. His balls took a second to settle, one dropping lower than the other, pressed against the soft cotton. He gave them one last tug before pulling on his jeans.

They were tight around the thighs, worn-in just right. When he pulled the zipper up, the bulge at his crotch was impossible to ignore. Not obscene, but present. Honest. Worked. He threw on a tank top, the armpits already stiff with yesterday’s sweat, and stepped into his boots.

No mirror check. No hesitation. This was Álvaro.

At the counter, he took out the tin. It used to be a cough drop container, now full of crumpled, sweet-smelling mota. He unrolled a small square of paper, licked his finger, and began rolling. The weed crumbled easily under his fingertips, sticking just enough to form a tight roll. His fingers worked fast—practice that didn’t make sense if you asked him to explain it. But they knew. His body knew.

He licked the paper, sealed the joint, and tapped it twice against the tin. Then he sparked it, taking a slow, full drag through pursed lips, his cheeks hollowing as the smoke filled his lungs.

The taste was earthy, sweet, mellow. It hit the back of his throat and settled in his chest like a heavy sigh.

He exhaled through his nose and muttered, “Así empieza un buen día.”

(“That’s how a good day starts.”)

Outside, the dirt kicked up as the truck pulled in. A beat-up Chevy with one door in primer gray. Inside: Manuel, a thick-necked man with a permanent scowl and three gold teeth. Álvaro flicked the joint into the ash dish by the door, grabbed his bag, and stepped out, the morning heat wrapping around him like a blanket.

“Listo, carnal?” Manuel grunted.

(“Ready, bro?”)

“Simón. Vamos por el canal viejo.”

(“Yeah. Let’s hit the old canal.”)

They drove past the dry canal beds, bouncing over unpaved paths, dust swallowing the tires. Álvaro leaned out the window, elbow resting on the frame, eyes sharp but relaxed.

He knew these roads. Not because someone told him. But because they were in his bones now.

They pulled into a shaded grove, where three men waited. Gaunt, sunburned, eyes hollow but hopeful. A woman cradled a toddler with cracked lips. No bags. No food. Just them.

“Cuatro esta vez,” Manuel said. “Van hasta la cueva, después los recoge el otro lado.”

(“Four this time. They go up to the cave. Someone picks them up past it.”)

Álvaro jumped down from the truck, cracking his neck.

“No hablen. No griten. Caminamos rápido,” he said to them calmly.

(“Don’t talk. Don’t yell. We walk fast.”)

He passed them each a small pouch of water, then checked his waistband for the knife. Not for fighting—but for cutting through fences if needed. His gait was light as he walked. His boots didn’t stomp. They slid over gravel and dry earth, careful not to kick up sound.

The group followed.

And Álvaro moved forward—not as a man pretending to be someone else.

But as Álvaro Medina, coyote. Smoker. Northern son of dust.

And the memory of Gregor Dalton?

The party had already spilled onto the balcony when Jahlil stepped inside. The air was hot, heavy with perfume and sweat, that throb of bass vibrating through the drywall like a second pulse. Every weekend since school started had ended like this—too many bodies in a small apartment, solo cups in hand, someone grinding to music too loud to talk over.

He moved through it without forcing space. It just opened for him now.

“Yo, Jahlil!” Marcus shouted from the couch, raising a plastic cup. “Told you this spot pop off!”

He nodded once, a quick jerk of his chin. People expected Jahlil to be chill, reserved—maybe cocky in a quiet kind of way. That expectation fit. He didn’t talk unless he wanted to. And when he did, heads turned.

“Who is that?” a girl near the kitchen asked, just loud enough.

“That’s Malik,” her friend answered. “Well—he goes by Jahlil now. Dion’s boy. He always at that barbershop.”

Jahlil caught that. He always caught that.

The barbershop had become ritual. Every Friday without fail, he sat in Dion’s chair, listened to the regulars talk mess while Dion shaped him up—goatee tight, mustache crisp, skin faded just right. The older men greeted him now. Some even stayed later when he did. Jahlil would linger after his cut, posted near the corner seat with a Coke bottle in hand, talking soft with Dion while the last few clients rolled through.

“You likein’ it so far?” Dion had asked that first week. “School, the town, the… change?”

Jahlil gave him a look—one he was still learning how to give with these new eyes, this new brow. “Takes gettin’ used to.”

“Mm-hmm,” Dion said. “But it’s in you now. Can’t unlearn confidence.”

That line stuck.

So did Candace.

She found him in the kitchen later that night, eyes dancing under thick lashes. Her gaze dropped to his lips and lingered. He wasn’t used to that. Jeremy hadn’t had lips like these—wide, round, plush. They always looked a little wet, even when he wasn’t licking them. Which he did now, automatically.

“You the quiet type?” she asked, fingering her cup.

“I talk when I got somethin’ worth sayin’,” he said, voice slow, deep.

“That a Baltimore thing?”

He let the silence stretch just enough to be cool. “It’s a Jahlil thing.”

She smiled like she’d been waiting to hear that.

“You know I be seein’ you,” she said. “Every Friday. Dion always takes his time with you.”

“Clean cut matter,” he replied.

She leaned in, close enough for him to feel the warmth off her skin. “So do lips.”

And then she kissed him. Just like that. Soft, slow, deliberate. Her hand slid up under his chin, holding his goatee in her palm.

When she pulled back, she bit her lip.

“You dangerous,” she whispered, voice hoarse.

He didn’t say anything

Later that night, back in the dorm, he stripped off his black tee and stood in front of the mirror. His chest was starting to fill in from gym days with Marcus. His jaw sat broader now, neck thicker. The goatee framed his mouth tight—like Dion had told him, “keep it trimmed and the focus stays on them lips.”

And it did. His reflection looked like a man who knew what he was doing. But behind it—inside—it still felt… split.

They think I’m Malik, goin’ by Jahlil, he thought. They don’t know Jeremy even existed.

He brushed his fingertips over his mouth, still swollen from the kiss. Then over his chin, the soft bristle of his goatee. He tried to imagine Jeremy doing what he’d done tonight. He couldn’t.

The silence in the dorm buzzed, only broken by Marcus mumbling in his sleep across the room.

“I’m Jahlil,” he said aloud, just to test it.

It sounded natural. It echoed a little.

But his stomach still turned.

He didn’t know who he was, not really—not yet. But when he looked in the mirror, what he saw… was becoming harder to resist.

He caught his reflection in the window of the sandwich shop as he walked by on 116th. The tight coils at the base of his scalp had started curling in dense, stubborn waves again—no longer laying flat and loose like they had after the initial perm. The new growth was claiming its space. His fingers tugged gently at the roots. It felt thicker there. Warmer. Like his scalp remembered something he didn’t.

Jahlil—that was the name everyone used now—checked his phone. Friday. Six weeks in. The place he’d gotten the first perm was a few blocks east. He hadn’t planned on going back, but the feeling of control that came with that slick, laid-down texture was worth the time. And besides, the woman who did it had felt… safe. Casual. Like she’d seen his kind of confusion before.

The bell above the salon door jingled as he stepped inside. The same jasmine-heavy smell clung to the air: oils, sprays, and burning flatirons. The music had changed, though—Teyana Taylor crooning softly over speakers.

A young Black woman with long purple nails and a silver nose ring looked up from her phone. She squinted, then slowly tilted her head.

“Wait. Have you been here before?”

He nodded once. “Yeah, uh… six weeks ago.”

She blinked. “Damn. You look different. I almost didn’t recognize you.”

“Perm grew out,” he said, sliding into the chair, pretending that’s all it was.

She pulled on latex gloves and parted his hair gently. “You got a name?”

“Jahlil.”

“Mm,” she said, drawing out the sound. “Jahlil. Aight.”

The solution burned slightly as it settled into the roots. Not painful—just enough to make him feel present. Grounded. Like the chemical smell was part of him now. She smoothed the product in with practiced hands, humming along to the music.

“So what you doin’ out here?”

“I’m part of a study. A social immersion thing.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Some sociology shit?”

He hesitated. “Yeah. Pretty much.”

She gave a little nod but didn’t press. “Well, you blendin’ better this time. Didn’t talk like that when you first came in.”

That hit somewhere deep. His posture shifted without him meaning to. Looser. Less pulled up and tight. He licked his lips unconsciously. They felt plush and smooth—DSLs, they’d joked at the shop. He hadn’t corrected them. Hell, he’d even smirked.

Back at Columbia, his professor paced at the front of the seminar room.

“Next round of check-ins,” she said, flipping open her folder. “Jahlil?”

He raised his hand. “Yeah.”

“Would you mind sharing some reflections from your sixth week? You’ve been focusing on linguistic shifts and identity navigation, right?”

He cleared his throat. “Yeah, uh… I’ve noticed that even small changes—like how I carry myself, or how I keep my hair—change how people treat me. There’s… trust now. Familiarity.”

“Can you give us an example?”

He hesitated, then said, “The barbershop. I go every Friday now. It’s not just about hair. It’s a space where I have to listen more than I speak. Where respect doesn’t come from your degree or your vocabulary—it’s how you sit. How you answer when someone asks if you want your shit lined tight. They teach me without making it obvious.”

The professor looked intrigued. “And what does that feel like?”

He thought about it. Really thought. “Like I’m not impersonating anymore. I’m absorbing.”

That night, after his weekly lineup, he lingered again in the worn leather chair at the far end of the shop. The same barbers—Kareem, Dante, and Big Rob—sat with their aprons undone, passing a bottle of Henny and talking about the Knicks.

“You startin’ to look like one of us, Jahlil,” Rob said, tapping ash from a fat blunt. “Hair laid, ’stache trimmed, lips lookin’…” He grinned. “Real confident.”

Jahlil laughed, hand brushing over his goatee. “Man, y’all clowned me that first week.”

“’Cause you looked tense as hell. Like you thought the cape was gon’ bite you.”

Kareem nodded. “Now look at you. Crossin’ your legs, leanin’ back, lips all moisturized. Got any ladies yet?”

He shrugged, but his grin gave him away. “Working on it.”

Dante laughed loud. “Boy got swagger now.”

Later, alone in his room, he stood shirtless at the mirror. Ran his hand over the tight waves, slick and shiny under the overhead light. He touched his lips again—pillow-soft and fuller than before. The way they puckered slightly when he sipped from his glass. The way women looked at him differently now—eyes pausing just a little longer.

He pulled open his journal. “Friday, Week 6. I feel like I’m becoming someone I was always supposed to be, but it scares me. Because when I wake up in the morning, I don’t know if Jeremy still exists under all this. Or if Jahlil is what’s left. I’m watching myself become a man I’m not sure I can return from.”

He clicked the pen closed. Outside, Harlem hummed like a low beat. And he swore—just faintly—he could feel it moving through him.

Ten weeks left.

That number had started to echo in Jahlil’s mind like a mantra. A countdown to… what, exactly? The end of the experiment? The return to normal? The end of pretending?

Or was he further away from himself than ever?

He sat at the edge of the folding chair, palms resting on the inside of his knees, the slam poetry event dim around him but alive—simmering with rhythm and wordplay and heavy truths. One of the poets, a stocky man with thick locks and a velvet voice, spoke about inherited grief and ancestral pride. His hands moved with each phrase, slicing air. It made Jahlil’s throat tighten.

He licked his lips, involuntarily. That fullness—he could never quite ignore it now. His bottom lip dragged slowly against the top, coated in a thin sheen of chapstick that had become habit. He reached up, thumb grazing along the contour of his goatee, which was still trimmed sharp thanks tos clippers.

He adjusted the collar of his button-down—charcoal gray, tight in the chest from his recent gains. His fingers hesitated when they brushed the chain around his neck. His voice—deep, warm, textured—had grown into something that others listened to. But he still didn’t quite recognize it.

After the poetry event, he walked over to a small community center where a fish fry was just winding down. The room was humid and filled with laughter, smoke from the grills still lingering in the air outside. Soul music played low, but the conversations roared.

Everyone was Black.

Every single person in the room.

Jahlil took a shallow breath and stepped through the threshold. It was like walking into warm water—uncomfortably hot at first, then deeply familiar. Or it would’ve been, if his mind hadn’t still whispered: you don’t belong here.

He was greeted by a nod from an older man with silver in his beard and a woman with a headwrap who offered him a paper plate stacked with fried catfish and hushpuppies. Jahlil said “thank you,” and the cadence of it sounded natural now. A drawl at the end. The bass in his voice

He found a seat by the window and looked down at his hands.

Darker than they used to be. The knuckles a deep brown, the palms lighter, callused. They didn’t tan evenly like before—they just stayed dark. The melanin didn’t fade between injections. In fact, he hadn’t been taking any for two weeks, and yet…

He flipped his hand over slowly, studying the lines like a map. This was who everyone saw. This was who he had to be, for ten more weeks.

“You good, brother?” a voice asked.

He looked up to see a man his age—beard full, short dreads pulled back, wearing a plain white tee and Timberlands. Jahlil nodded

“Yeah. Just takin’ it in.”

“You new ‘round here?”

“Sorta. Been comin’ around more lately.”

“I’m Marquise.”

“Jahlil.”

They clasped hands. Jahlil met Marquise’s eyes with a steady gaze, then let himself smile. Not big. Just enough to feel his cheeks tug against his mustache.

“You eat?”

“Just got my plate.”

“Cool. We do this every couple weeks. You should come back.”

“I will.”

Later that night, Jahlil sat on the edge of his bed, jeans half undone, shirt clinging to him from the humidity of the walk home. He stared at himself in the mirror again.

“Jeremy,” he whispered.

Nothing stirred.

“Jahlil.”

That… felt rooted. Like it belonged to the shape of his face now.

He ran his hands over his thighs, feeling the strength in them. Looked again at his hands, wide and veined and deeply Black. He didn’t try to fight the unease anymore. He just breathed through it. There were layers in him now. Tension and ease. Doubt and growing pride. This wasn’t a costume anymore.

It was his reflection. And it stared back without blinking.

Week eight arrived like a tide that had quietly reshaped the coastline—his reflection now wholly foreign, yet achingly familiar. He stood before the full-length mirror in the corner of the apartment, hands resting on the waist of his new pants. Not jeans. Not chinos. These were caramel-toned joggers, loose through the thigh and cinched at the ankle, the waistband riding just low enough on his hips to flash a tease of his black boxer briefs. He adjusted the drawstring with one hand while the other pulled slightly at the hem of his new vest—vivid kente cloth stitched into bold, geometric blocks that framed the deep black tank underneath. His shoulders looked broader somehow. His collarbones more pronounced. His skin richer, deeper, with a sheen that made the colors of his vest hum.

The borrowed glasses slipped slightly down his nose. They weren’t his prescription, but they were Jeremey’s. Rounder lenses. Gold wire rims. Everything looked just a little too close and a little too far at once. That disorientation, though, had begun to feel like the new normal. He squinted slightly, brushing the bridge back up with two fingers and speaking aloud just to hear himself again.

“‘S cool, though. I mean… I ain’t mad at it. Jus’ gotta adjust.”

The voice had thickened even further this week—low, syrupy, with a slower, relaxed cadence that rolled like a Southern backbeat. His tongue sat differently in his mouth now. His R’s dragged. His T’s softened. Where once he’d been crisp, maybe even uptight, now there was space between every word, a natural groove that came from nowhere and everywhere.

He recorded a quick share-out to the professor for the weekly check-in, holding his phone low so his face filled most of the frame.

“Hey Professor. Week eight check-in. Uh…” he rubbed the back of his neck, pausing. “Yeah, so I been learnin’ a lot. Like, not just in class, but—everywhere. Jus’ bein’ out here, y’know? The music, the way folks talk to each other, how they move, how they dress. It ain’t just surface. It’s deep. This culture got rhythm in it, like—like even how people sit down got flavor. There’s somethin’ sacred in it.”

He swallowed and adjusted his vest again, looking away from the camera as he thought aloud.

“I started wearin’ this vest after goin’ to that spoken word thing two nights back. Man came out wearin’ one like it, and the crowd—everybody just felt him before he even opened his mouth. Thought maybe I’d try that out too.”

He gave the camera a soft smile.

“Been thinkin’ ‘bout hair too. Cornrows, maybe. Saw this brother yesterday at the library—long neat rows, looked clean as hell. I ain’t never done somethin’ like that before. Always kept my hair short or wild. But it’s different now. Like, I feel this weight when I look in the mirror. Like I’m carryin’ somethin’ bigger than me.”

He exhaled, voice trailing into a hushed reverence.

“I wanna honor it right. Y’know?”

His fingers reached up to brush the sides of his hair, now shaped into a tight, sculpted mini-fro that was beginning to thicken near the scalp. He turned from the mirror and picked up his bag—a slouchy, dark canvas satchel with leather trim and paint-splatter stains, half-zipped and sagging like it had stories to tell. He threw it over his shoulder and walked with a weight in his step he hadn’t had before. He rolled his shoulders differently now. There was rhythm in his gait—slow, grounded, confident. His sneakers creaked slightly as he stepped out of the door, lips already mouthing the chorus of a new song he’d heard at the jazz café down the street.

His culture was no longer a class.

It was in his throat, in his pants, in his stride, and in his fingertips.

And maybe, soon, it would be braided tightly against his scalp.

“Yo, you ever get your shit braided?” he asked, tugging gently at the coiled kinks along his temple as he slouched against the lunch table. The cafeteria’s back patio was crowded with bodies and voices, but his question cut through the heat and chatter.

Tayvon, who sat across from him in a bright blue durag and oversized diamond studs, grinned and slapped the table. “This man ready! I told you it was comin’. You been rockin’ that fro like you got a plan.”

“Mmhmm,” said Drea, flipping one of her own long cornrowed braids over her shoulder as she took a bite of her salad. “What made you finally ask?”

He shrugged, chewing thoughtfully on a corner of cornbread. “Just feels right. Like—I’ve been feelin’… I dunno, like I’m carryin’ somethin’ that needs to be shaped. Cornrows look clean. Focused.”

“That’s real,” Tayvon nodded, approving. “You tryna go straight backs, zig-zags, what?”

He laughed, a low chuckle with that deep molasses drawl that had become his signature. “I don’t even know the terms, man. I’m tryna learn. Y’all got somebody good?”

Drea leaned in, wiping her mouth. “A’ight, listen. You gotta go to ReRe. She’s over on Auburn and 23rd. Little green house, front porch got all these wind chimes. You’ll see it. Go after six—she braids outta her living room.”

“Bet,” he said, already pulling out his phone to type it in.

Tayvon tapped his screen. “But don’t go alone. Come wit’ us Thursday night. That’s when everybody hangs out anyway. Music, snacks, gossip, braids—like a block party, but chill. We’ll introduce you proper.”

That Thursday, the air outside ReRe’s was humid and buzzing with conversation. Someone had set up two folding tables on the porch, one stacked with foil-covered pans of wings and cornbread, the other with cups, bottles, and a speaker blaring slow R&B cuts. Inside, the living room had been transformed—two barbershop chairs along the wall, a full mirror on a stand, clips and oils on a side table, and ReRe herself—short, thick, with huge gold hoops and honey-blonde dreads twisted into a bun—sat braiding up a teen boy as she hummed along to the music.

“Who this fine cocoa butter boy y’all brought me?” she asked, glancing over the top of her glasses.

He felt himself blush but smiled. “New to the neighborhood. I’m lookin’ to get tight.”

“Ooooh, say less,” she winked. “Take that vest off, baby, let Mama ReRe see what we workin’ with.”

He shrugged off the kente vest, sitting down in the chair as Drea handed him a bottle of water. “We doin’ classic cornrows tonight,” ReRe said, fingers already misting his scalp with rose water. “First time, I keep it simple. Let yo’ scalp breathe and get used to the pull.”

He exhaled as her fingertips parted his hair with expert pressure. Cold comb teeth traced neat, methodical lines through his scalp. Her grip was firm, the braid beginning at his temple like a whisper, then tightening. Pull. Twist. Fold. Feed. He could feel every inch, the way the roots responded, the tug like a heartbeat. The further she braided, the heavier his crown felt. Like authority. Like belonging

“You sittin’ nice,” she said. “Some of these men be squirmy. But you feel this, huh?”

“Yeah,” he murmured. “I feel it.”

By the time she was done, eight thick, sleek cornrows ran from his forehead to the nape of his neck, each one tucked clean and glistening with oil. He ran his fingers along the part lines, marveling at the tightness.

“I feel… grounded.”

“You look it too,” Tayvon said. “Next stop? Lineup.”

He nodded. “Already got my barber. I see him Saturdays.”

The next morning, he was in the chair atthe air thick with talc, alcohol spray, and cologne. Lyle glanced at his braids and grunted in approval.

“You let ReRe do that?”

“Yeah. Last night.”

“Clean,” Lyle said. “Whatchu want today?”

“Keep the fade, freshen the edges. But…”

He reached up and touched the sharp, squared lines of his goatee.

“Take this off. Keep the ‘stache. Just the ‘stache now.”

Lyle raised an eyebrow. “That a whole look, you sure?”

He nodded slowly. “Yeah. I’m startin’ to feel like myself. Jus’… new.”

The clippers buzzed to life. Hair fell like peppered ash down his cape. As the goatee disappeared, the mustache stood out stronger—bold, neat, thick across his upper lip. Lyle shaped the ends slightly downward, giving it a smooth taper that framed his mouth with grown-man confidence.

When he stood and took in the mirror, he saw himself again—but through a new lens. The cornrows tight. The ‘stache proud. The joggers slung low. And those gold-rimmed glasses? They didn’t look borrowed anymore.

They looked like they belonged.

He sat at the edge of the mattress in his dorm, one leg pulled up, elbow resting on his knee, eyes fixated on the glowing screen of his phone. The room was dark save for the flickering from the hallway under the door and the phone’s light on his face, highlighting the neat rows of freshly braided cornrows that hugged his scalp, tight and glossy.

“Why do cornrows itch?” he typed, brows furrowed. His fingers hovered a moment, then added: “How to care for cornrows. First time. Black men.”

The results flooded in—videos, forum posts, tutorials. His thumb scrolled through them, absorbing everything. He learned to dab his scalp with witch hazel or a mild astringent to soothe the itch. He watched a video of a guy pouring a diluted shampoo solution onto his scalp, then patting it dry with a T-shirt. Another showed a man with gold caps on his front teeth gently tying a do-rag over his braids.

He blinked slowly, the itch crawling like ants across the middle of his crown. “This shit is real,” he muttered aloud, glancing toward the mirror across the room.

The cornrows made his forehead seem higher, his face longer. His mustache sat alone now—neatly lined, no longer partnered with the small goatee he had worn for weeks. The skin around his mouth was darker now, lips glossy from the cocoa butter balm he’d started using. His lips seemed bigger, fuller. He smacked them lightly, then gave himself a half-smirk

“Damn,” he whispered. “I look like… a whole other dude.”

The itch hit again. He stood abruptly and padded across the floor to his mini-fridge, pulled out a cold bottle of water, and dabbed it against his temple. No good. He grabbed a paper towel and mimicked what he’d seen in one of the tutorials, then pulled on a fresh wave cap.

A notification pinged on his phone—an email from the campus health center.

Your contact lenses have arrived.

He exhaled in relief. He hadn’t realized how much he missed clarity—he’d been walking around in Jeremey’s old backup glasses, slightly bent at the nose bridge. They slipped down his face constantly, adding to the quiet tension already alive in his body.

The next morning, he took the wave cap off and gingerly padded his fingers down each braid. He winced—still sore—but they looked good. Crisp. He slid the new contacts in slowly, blinking against the sudden clarity.

In the mirror, he stared at himself again. His head still looked foreign. But his eyes—there they were. A little deeper set now. A little more… watchful

He picked up his notebook. His anthropology professor had asked for weekly reflections.

Week 8: On Hair and Identity

He began writing:

“I never realized how much hair meant. Not just as style—but as code. I see the nods I get now. From people I don’t even know. It’s like… I unlocked a new level of communication. My scalp hurts. It itches. But I feel marked. And people respond to that mark.

I’m still learning what I’m saying without knowing it. Still learning how to listen.

I finally got my own contacts. Feels good to see clearly again. But the rest of me is still coming into focus.”

He put down the pen and rubbed the back of his neck. In a few hours, he’d be heading to the cultural center again. Another poetry night. Another late-night chicken plate on the corner.

And maybe—just maybe—he’d stop feeling like he was wearing someone else’s life.

He walked into the Tuesday evening seminar ten minutes early, something he never used to do. Not as Jeremy, at least. Back then, he skated in just before the professor began—if he showed up at all—slouched low in his seat with half-prepared thoughts and a fog of apathy that never quite lifted.

But now?

Now he sat near the front, elbows planted firmly on the desk, fingers laced. His cornrows were tied back with a black durag he removed carefully just before class. His gold-hooped earring caught the fluorescent light as he leaned forward. The clean mustache framed his full lips, still glossy from balm. His sagging khakis—he’d customized them with a few slashes at the knees—pooled around his clean black and white Nikes. A printed graphic tee hugged his chest, bright in color, with the sleeves cuffed just above his arms. He wasn’t flashy. Just expressive.

She was already there when he arrived—Aisha, in the third row, notebook open, hand resting under her chin. She wore her box braids up in a high bun and tapped her pen against her lips as she read.

He nodded toward her. “What’s good, Aisha

She looked up, blinking. A smile broke slowly across her lips. “Malik. Always early lately.”

“Tryin’ to get that GPA up,” he said with a low chuckle, sliding into the seat beside her. “Gotta stay focused.”

Aisha tilted her head. “You’ve changed,” she said softly. “You used to sit all the way in the back, half-asleep.”

He smirked. “That was… a different me.”

“No kidding.” She reached into her bag and pulled out a mint tin, offering it without asking. He took one, brushing her fingertips lightly.

They sat in silence for a moment before she asked, “You ever think about what got you here? Like… what it took? How people see you now?”

He looked at her for a long beat, then exhaled slowly. “All the time. More than I should.”

Their eyes locked, and the tension held until the professor arrived.

After class, they walked together toward the campus quad, the sun just beginning to set, casting gold lines along the walkways.

“I don’t get people like Julian,” Aisha said suddenly. “He’s all theory. All talk. Always quoting Fanon like it makes him deep.”

He laughed. “That man’s got three Audre Lorde books in his tote bag and still thinks Black culture starts at Nas and ends at Kendrick.”

Aisha grinned, eyes lighting up. “Exactly! You always get it. But you never used to say stuff like that. You were quiet.”

He shrugged, glancing up at the leaves trembling in the late summer breeze. “I think… I had to wake up.”

They stopped at the edge of the plaza. She stepped in closer, eyes searching his. “Whatever woke you up, I like this version.”

He swallowed, pulse quickening. “Yeah? I do too.”

That night, lying in bed with the window cracked open and cicadas humming outside, he stared at his hands. They were darker now. Still smooth, but he’d picked up a few calluses from hitting the gym more regularly. He flexed them slowly.

He pulled out his phone and typed into the search bar: how long do melanin injections last? do skin pigment injections fade?

A dozen sites popped up. Some said weeks. Some said months. One forum had a guy who claimed his lasted almost a year.

He sat with that. His stomach churned.

Would it fade from his hands first? His chest? Would the color vanish all at once or peel slowly away like old paint?

He touched the edge of his jaw, feeling the prickling sensation of new stubble coming in—coarser now, thicker. His mustache had grown in heavier than he expected, curling slightly at the ends if he didn’t trim it just right.

He texted Aisha.

You ever think about what identity even is sometimes? Like… where it really lives?

She responded almost instantly.

All the time. But you? You wear it well. Don’t second-guess it. Just be it.

He smiled. Heart thudding.

He wanted to believe that. He wanted to believe this was his life now.

But the itch wasn’t just in his scalp anymore. It was deeper. An itch for permanence. For clarity.

For truth.

It was Friday again.

The campus buzzed with anticipation for the end-of-week parties, but Jeremy—still living as Malik—moved slower through the motions that morning. He was tired. The cornrows itched like hell. He’d Googled and Reddit’d and YouTubed everything he could about “itchy cornrows maintenance.” Apple cider vinegar. Witch hazel. Scalp oil. Silk durags. Still itched.

He peeled off his durag and blinked at himself in the mirror. The braids were fresh, neat, shining with the sheen of peppermint oil. His thick mustache curved slightly at the edges now, shaped tight just above his full lips. The goatee was gone—he’d made that decision last week at the barbershop and stood by it.

Today was his regular appointment. “For consistency,” he told himself.

He pulled on his pants—this new pair he’d found at a thrift store near campus. They sagged lower than he was used to. Not obnoxiously, but low enough to feel the breeze on the small of his back. And they weren’t black or beige like Jeremy used to wear—they were a deep rust-orange, cuffed perfectly over his Jordan 1s.

He tugged on a black tee with a red graphic print—some local hip-hop artist he wasn’t familiar with. His new friends said it looked good on him. He trusted them.

At the barbershop, it was loud with talk and bass-heavy music. The same older guy—Taye—waved him to the chair.

“Ayyeee, Malik. Lookin’ like you survived them braids, huh?” Taye chuckled, brushing hair clippings off the seat.

Jeremy sat down, scratching absently behind his ear. “Man, they tight, bro. But they clean.”

“You’ll get used to it. Don’t scratch too much, though—gon’ mess up the parts.” Taye picked up his clippers. “Same lineup? Just the ‘stache?”

“Yeah, yeah, just the mustache. Clean up the sides, too.”

As the clippers buzzed, the guys in the shop teased each other about a fight at last week’s cookout, someone’s girl showing up with a new man, and the Friday night party happening off-campus.

“You comin’ through tonight, Malik?” asked Dee, a lanky guy in a Lakers jersey who was waiting for his cut.

Jeremy hesitated. “Yeah, maybe. Still tryna figure out what I’m wearin’.”

Dee smirked. “Man, you better not show up in that button-up you wore last time. That shit was church clothes.”

Laughter bounced around the shop.

“Nah,” Taye said with a grin. “Let him ease into it. Let the brother find his rhythm.”

Outside afterward, Dee lit a Swisher Sweet and offered Jeremy one.

Jeremy stared at it for a beat too long. He remembered Jeremy’s body recoiling at the smell once. But now—Malik’s body, Malik’s mouth—it didn’t disgust him the same. It smelled like sugar, honey, and a little earth.

He took one. Lit it. Coughed on the first drag. Everyone laughed.

“You gon’ learn,” said Dee. “You puff that, then sip on some Henny, and you gon’ be loose for the party tonight.”

Later, back in his apartment, Jeremy stood in front of the mirror shirtless. His braids looked too good to cover. He picked out a tank top—tight enough to show his shoulders. Gold chain. Sagging pants. Jordans.

He hesitated again. Then pulled up a photo of Jeremy—pale skin, neat jawline, Abercrombie button-up.

“I don’t know when this shit’s supposed to wear off,” he whispered, brushing a finger over his knuckles. The skin was still rich brown, smooth, with the faint shimmer of shea butter. “But I ain’t ready for it to end yet.”

“Y’all are gonna remember this for the rest of your damn lives,” was all Elijah said when the first invitations arrived. Creamy thick envelopes sealed with wax—his initials pressed in bold copper. The four of them—Dev, Mason, Jorge, and the groom-to-be, Griffin—received theirs within a day of each other, scattered across the country.

Inside was a card, embossed with burnished lettering on rough parchment:

You are cordially invited to a most unusual Bachelor Celebration—five days of immersion, camaraderie, and transformation. Pack light. What you wear now, you won’t need. Your new life awaits.

We need the following by Sunday:

• Current measurements: height, inseam, waist, neck, shoe size, hat size, wrist circumference

• Facial hair status

• A headshot without facial expression

Your destination is: Santa Fe Regional Airport

Date of Departure: September 9

Do not open your character card until you are in the air.

That was it. Elijah didn’t answer questions.

Griffin had tried texting him three times the week before.

GRIFFIN: What kind of bachelor party is this, man?

ELIJAH: Just trust me.

GRIFFIN: You making us do ayahuasca in the desert or some shit?

ELIJAH: Better.

Griffin, 34, a finance consultant, sharp-featured with buzzed light brown hair, a lean, gym-maintained body, and a nervous laugh, was both excited and low-key panicking. Mason, his best man, had shaved the sides of his head into a fade, wore silver rings on nearly every finger, and had a perpetual smirk that made everyone expect mischief from him. He flew in from Chicago, where he ran a boutique gym. Jorge, the biggest of them all, was broad-shouldered and warm-eyed, a firefighter out of Denver with a thick beard and callused hands. Dev, a tech guy from Seattle, was slim and stylish, usually in black turtlenecks, obsessed with speakeasies and jazz bars.

The four friends hadn’t been in the same place together in nearly two years.

And now, they stood beside one another in Santa Fe’s tiny regional terminal, bags in hand, laughing too loudly, hugging longer than usual, staring at Elijah, who leaned against a matte black SUV outside.

Elijah, the quietest of them all, wore a black button-up shirt and beige desert boots. His beard had grown in since they’d last seen him—darker, fuller—and his hair was longer, slicked back. Something was different in his energy. Focused. Stern. He hugged each of them, but didn’t laugh.

“Y’all ready?” he asked, smiling but guarded.

“You gonna tell us what the hell is happening now?” Mason asked, tossing his duffel in the back.

Elijah just grinned and pointed. “Get in.”

The Embodiment Institute.

A low-slung adobe facility emerged—curved edges, pale ochre in color. Strange wind chimes hung in clusters near the entrance. As they climbed out, a woman in a green dress approached. Her gray hair was piled high in a bun, but her arms were covered in ink.

“Welcome, gentlemen,” she said with a strange accent—somewhere between Midwestern and something older. “Please follow me to Intake.”

Still no answers. Just wide-eyed glances between friends.

Inside, they were brought into a cool hallway lined with lanterns, floor-to-ceiling mirrors, and old, sepia-toned portraits of men with long mustaches, leather dusters, rifles, and pipe smoke curling from their lips.

They were led into a round room where four high-backed leather chairs waited. In front of each chair—neatly folded—were loose-fitting gray gowns and slip-on sandals.

“We’ll begin shortly,” said the woman. “Please undress and change into your prep robes. Jewelry off. Phones on the tray.” She motioned to the center pedestal. “After this, the fun begins.”

Still stunned, the guys looked at Elijah.

“Elijah,” Dev said cautiously, “What the fuck is this? You told us bachelor party. Not… spa cult retreat.”

Elijah smiled, standing near the exit. “Just trust me. It’s all part of the immersion. Everything’s about to change. In the best way possible.”

One by one, still laughing nervously, they undressed.

Griffin felt weird taking off his clothes in front of everyone—boxer briefs, socks, the wedding ring he already wore just for comfort—placing everything in the canvas bag provided. He slid the robe on. The material felt… heavier than expected. As he looked at himself in the mirror, he noticed the color of his eyes shift—just subtly—from gray-blue to a hazier, muddy green.

“Uh—guys?” he muttered.

“I feel like I’m tripping and we didn’t take anything yet,” Dev said, looking at his arms. “Is it me or are these robes… tight around the chest?”

Jorge was already seated, eyes closed. “Feels good to me. Warm. Like it’s molding to me.”

“It’s supposed to,” said a man who entered silently. He was massive—long black hair tied back, a black turtleneck over broad shoulders, his skin sun-worn and bronze. “You’re not wearing robes. You’re wearing time.”

Elijah smiled. “Boys—meet Ezra. He’s our transformation lead.”

Ezra handed each of them an envelope. “Do not open these until you are airborne. Your character cards. These are who you’ll become.”

They boarded a sleek, vintage-style aircraft just an hour later. Wood interiors, leather chairs, dark velvet curtains. No logos. No flight crew—except Ezra, who now wore a brown vest and had taken on the air of a conductor in an old train.

The plane lifted gently into the sky.

“Now,” Ezra said, “open your envelopes.”

Each man did so, hearts beating fast.

GRIFFIN:

Name: Ellis Booker

Age: 38

Profession: Sheriff of Wren Hollow

Background: Former outlaw turned lawman. Known for his cold stare and swift trigger. Stoic. Clean. Craves justice… and whiskey.

Vices: Cigarillos, strong bourbon, power

Body type: Broad-shouldered, deep-chested, heavy-legged with square jaw and sun-aged skin

Clothing: Leather duster, steel toe boots, sheriff’s badge, wool vest

Facial Hair: Thick dark mustache, stubbled jaw

Hair: Jet black, parted, heavy pomade

MASON:

Name: Saul Vickers

Age: 43

Profession: Riverboat Tycoon

Background: A man of means and schemes. Knows how to manipulate trade and men alike. Flashy. Always in motion.

Vices: Gambling, cigars, women… and secrets

Body type: Tall, soft belly, expensive hands, long fingers

Clothing: Pinstripe three-piece suit, gold chain, top hat

Facial Hair: Curled mustache, oiled beard

Hair: Chestnut, styled and curled

JORGE:

Name: Clay McKinney

Age: 36

Profession: Bandit and Enforcer

Background: Once worked on the rails, now robs them. Simple, loyal, deadly.

Vices: Chew tobacco, brawling, greasy meat

Body type: Wide torso, hairy forearms, deep chest, fat fingers

Clothing: Canvas pants, suspenders, bandana, gunbelt

Facial Hair: Wild, unkempt beard

Hair: Buzzed, dirt-streaked

DEV:

Name: Felix “Trickshot” Darrow

Age: 39

Profession: Saloon Owner

Background: Talker, charmer, hustler. Ran from the east coast and reinvented himself.

Vices: Opium, gin, flirting

Body type: Lean, wiry, long legs, deft hands

Clothing: Velvet jacket, lace shirt, finger rings

Facial Hair: Narrow chin beard, waxed mustache

Hair: Auburn curls, shoulder-length

Griffin read his card twice.

“Sheriff?” he whispered. “I’m… I’m a goddamn sheriff?”

Mason started grinning. “You see this shit? I’m wearing a top hat.”

Jorge was already chuckling. “Bandit? Hell yeah. Makes sense.”

Dev raised an eyebrow, “Opium? The hell, man?”

They laughed. The laughter faded. Each man looked at the others—really looked. Mason’s beard looked fuller than it had that morning. Griffin’s hands had grown wider, knuckles slightly more pronounced. Jorge’s jaw was beginning to square out—hair creeping higher on his cheekbones.

“Wait…” Griffin said slowly. “My skin…”

Each of them watched themselves changing, inch by inch, millimeter by millimeter. Cuticles thickening. Teeth aching. The smell of tobacco started to feel… enticing

“Ezra,” Dev asked, his voice already raspier, “What the fuck is happening?”

Ezra looked at them, unmoved. “You’re becoming what you always were. The costumes are just catching up.”

[Continuing with the next 5,000+ words of the transformation — from makeup room through to individual dressing and full emergence. No summary, no headers. Just immersive narrative.]

The moment the plane touched down on the desert runway, the air had shifted. No one said a word. It felt like stepping through a veil.

Each man was escorted into a separate vehicle—horseless carriages styled to resemble something out of the 1800s, yet clearly engineered with precision. Not one of the friends spoke; they couldn’t. Their voices felt thick in their throats. Their thoughts—disjointed, vibrating, foreign.

Griffin… no, Ellis—he began thinking in fragments now—noticed that when he blinked, the light bent differently around the edges of his vision. Mason’s nose looked slightly broader than earlier. Dev’s freckles had darkened. Jorge… he was staring at his hands like he didn’t recognize them.

The cars rolled up to a vast compound, part adobe ranch, part old Western movie set. Ezra stepped out first and turned, his voice sonorous.

“Inside, you’ll undergo Hair and Makeup. You’ll each be taken to separate dressing rooms once your body is ready.”

“Ready?” Griffin’s voice cracked—lower than before. Guttural. “What do you mean ready?”

Ezra only smiled. “Don’t fight it.”

Inside, the hallway was lined with rich velvet curtains. Oil lamps flickered. Distant fiddle music played softly, but no source could be found. One by one, they were ushered behind separate doors by silent, gloved attendants. Griffin was last.

The chair was wide. Leather. Heavy wooden arms. As he sat, he noticed the weight in his hips. The robe clung differently now, stretched around broader shoulders.

“Mr. Booker,” said a voice behind him. “We’ll begin.”

A mirror loomed in front of him. His reflection flickered… and then steadied.

The makeup artist was older, with silvery eyes and long, sunspotted fingers. She dipped her brush in a tray of deep brown pigment and began smearing it into the contours of Griffin’s face. Except… it didn’t feel like makeup. It tingled. It stung. His pores absorbed it.

“Wait,” he murmured. “This ain’t… normal.”

“No, Sheriff Booker,” she said softly. “None of this is.”

Griffin grunted. His jaw ached. The brush moved down his neck. He blinked, and his reflection blurred again—his chin squaring, his temples tightening. The bones under his skin popped—crack—softer than a fracture, but loud enough to make him wince.

The brush was swapped for a small metal instrument. She pressed it into his upper lip and applied something waxy. Heat bloomed under the skin.

And then—sprout. Like the sudden bud of spring, a thick black mustache pushed through. It itched fiercely, then stopped. The ends curled downward just slightly.

His cheeks reddened. The sun-aged look. He could feel the burn of it, like long days on horseback. His eyebrows thickened—his eyelids heavier. His lips lost their pink flush and dulled to a dry, dusty hue.

The attendant placed a firm, calloused hand on his scalp.

“What the hell—” he murmured.

And then he felt it.

The follicles on his head tingled. Hair pushed out, jet black and coarser than he’d ever known it to be. A natural part formed at the center, swept back as if trained over years. It felt heavy with oil… with pomade. His hand lifted, ran fingers through it—it didn’t feel like a wig. It felt his.

“God… damn…” he whispered.

A tingling burned across his gums.

Then came the pop.

Each tooth loosened slightly, then re-rooted. The front two now large and squared, more visible. His tongue ran over a molar—flat, strong. A chewing tooth.

He looked in the mirror. He no longer saw Griffin.

He saw a sheriff. The eyes, the jaw, the weathered skin. The kind of man who settled problems with silence and a revolver.

He heard yelling through the wall—Mason.

“Are those real?!” Mason’s voice echoed. “What the fuck—what the fuck are these—these rings are part of my hands now?!”

The makeup artist laughed softly. “Mr. Vickers has arrived, I see.”

Across the compound, Mason’s own transformation had become theatrical. They had brought him a velvet-cushioned chair and surrounded him with three attendants. One applied thick creams that bronzed his skin a full shade darker, bringing out a strange reddish undertone. Another began reshaping his beard—not trimming it, but massaging something warm into it.

The hair on his jawline pulsed.

He screamed as the beard suddenly thickened, oiled up as if maintained daily for years. His mustache curled up at the edges—he hadn’t seen that coming. “Jesus! I look like… some old banker-slash-wizard!”

His reflection betrayed more—his nose now more hawkish, his ears pierced with gold studs. His fingers… long and slender, with thick knuckles and pruned, soft palms. A man who’d never done labor. Just deals.

Then, without warning, a cigar was placed between his lips.

He coughed at first.

The artist leaned in. “Inhale, Mr. Vickers.”

His lips wrapped around the dark, thick stogie. A slow pull. He tasted tobacco and cloves. It burned his throat. Then it soothed him. His pupils dilated. A grin crept across his face.

“Oh,” Mason—Saul—moaned. “Oh that’s… nice.”

He looked at his teeth. Slightly yellower now. But even. Sharp. The kind of grin that closed deals and opened legs.

One floor below, Jorge sat bare-chested. His robe was already torn at the seams, unable to contain his expanding chest and gut. He groaned as thick body hair exploded from his chest and trailed down his stomach.

“What the hell are you doin’ to me?” he asked, voice now low and thudding.

The attendant—male, broad-shouldered, wearing only suspenders—grunted and stuffed a dip of tobacco into Jorge’s lower lip.

He resisted at first. Then sighed. His whole mouth began to salivate. His tongue licked at the brown leaf. His mind dimmed slightly.

“You’re Clay McKinney now,” the man said. “And you’re strong as hell. And dumb as you need to be.”

His neck thickened. His shoulders cracked, spreading wide. A tattoo of a cross emerged across his forearm like it had always been there. His thighs widened, his boots bursting at the seams. New ones waited nearby—mud-stained and steel-toed.

Meanwhile, Dev sat in the mirror… trembling.

His hands had already become slimmer. More graceful. Each nail buffed, each knuckle faintly dusted in silver rings. His skin pale but glowing.

He watched as his hair curled and lengthened before his eyes—down past his shoulders, auburn waves cascading. A delicate goatee etched itself onto his chin, a waxed mustache curling above his lip.

“I… I look like a fucking magician,” he whispered.

“You own the saloon,” the artist said, applying rouge to his cheeks and eyeliner to his lids. “Your job is to seduce, distract, and profit.”

He saw his eyes in the mirror—sultry. Knowing. Older.

Then came the clothes.

They were led—individually, now wordless—down the corridor toward four separate rooms. In each room, their character wardrobe was displayed like museum pieces. Lit by lantern. Reverent.

Griffin stepped into the Sheriff’s room. His breath caught.

A thick leather gunbelt, a steel star, a tailored black duster with red lining. Boots with square heels. A wool shirt the color of gunmetal. Underwear—long, woolen. His name—Ellis Booker—embroidered in the waist.

He dropped the robe.

His body was dense. His thighs thick like tree trunks. Hair had sprouted along his stomach and legs, coarse and dark. His feet were wider. Even his dick hung heavier—meaty, low, crowned with new skin he didn’t recognize. His balls were fat and swung as he moved.

“Holy shit,” he whispered.

His voice was deeper. Hoarse. Like gravel.

One by one, he dressed.

Underwear first—itchy, but instinctual. Then the shirt, thick around the arms. He buttoned it slowly, hands trembling. The pants were stiff denim. No zipper—just buttons. They clung to his new ass, which was rounder, firmer. The suspenders hugged his shoulders.

The boots—heavy, unpolished—slid on and made him taller. He adjusted the badge last, pinning it to his left breast.

As it clicked in, something clicked in him.

He stood straighter. His mouth curled into a tight line. His eyes narrowed.

“Ellis Booker,” he said to the mirror, and believed it.

Elsewhere, Mason slid into silk boxers—not modern, but the high-waisted kind. A crisp collared shirt followed, frilled slightly, tucked into pinstripe slacks. A gold chain draped across his chest, connected to a pocket watch he instinctively wound.

The vest hugged his belly. The top hat balanced perfectly on his oiled curls.

He took another puff of the cigar—now perfectly placed between his two front teeth—and gave himself a smirk.

“I got deals to make, don’t I?”

Jorge—Clay now—grunted as he pulled up canvas trousers that nearly split from his thighs. No underwear. Just thick denim against thick skin. He belted them high. A red bandana around his neck. Suspenders snapping into place.

He laughed as he caught his reflection. “Hell yeah,” he muttered, bouncing once. “Built like a damn ox.”

Dev buttoned a velvet waistcoat over his lace shirt. A blue cravat at his throat. His hands delicately adjusted each ring. He smelled faint gin and lavender. His nipples peeked through the thin shirt. His hips now slightly more curved. He looked… ambiguous. Rich. Dangerous.

One hour later, the saloon doors swung open.

Four men emerged—not as they were, but as they now believed.

And something deep in the mirror’s reflection… locked into place.

From their perspective

Ellis stood alone in the wooden dressing room. The lamp overhead flickered softly. His breath was slow and heavy—slightly wheezing, like a man who’d taken in years of desert air. The mirror before him no longer reflected Griffin. That was gone.

He reached for the long underwear first—coarse wool, scratchy on the skin. As he bent over to step into it,he caught his new thighs flexing in the mirror.

“Jesus…”

His voice caught in his throat. Gravel. That was what it sounded like now. Gravel and whiskey.

He tugged the long johns up his legs. They were snug. His thighs were thicker than they’d ever been. Covered in a new coat of coarse, dark hair. Even his calves had changed shape—leaner, harder, like someone who spent their life in saddle.

He reached between his legs. He had to. He needed to know.

His new balls were heavy. Full. They hung low in the wool, pulling forward with gravity. His dick was different too—uncut, girthy, almost unrecognizable. Not the clean, smooth shaft he’d known in his old life. This was something primal.

He didn’t know whether to panic or moan.

Instead, he kept dressing.

The shirt was stiff—gunmetal wool. He slid his arms into it and froze when he felt the muscles in his forearms bulge slightly at the movement. The sleeves barely made it over his thick wrists. His new shoulders pushed the seams wide. He ran a hand down the length of his torso. The shirt clung to him.

Next, he buttoned on the thick denim pants. No zipper—buttons only. Every inch of it reminded him of the body beneath. He could feel the shape of his ass—rounder, wider. His thighs rubbed as he walked. He cinched the suspenders, the weight of the pants pulling on his waist as if daring him to stride.

His badge was last.

He pinned it to his chest slowly. As it clicked into place, he exhaled.

“Sheriff Ellis Booker,” he said aloud, testing the name.

And it felt right.

Saul Vickers was laughing to himself. In his room, he stood naked in front of the mirror with one hand on his stomach.

“I got a damn belly,” he whispered. “When the hell did I get a belly?”

He poked it, and it jiggled. His chest, still broad, now sloped slightly. It wasn’t fat—it was luxury. This was the body of a man who didn’t need to lift shit. A man waited on.

The silk drawers slid on easily. He adjusted his cock—it was long, a little veiny, and hung lazy between his legs. His pubic hair was neat and auburn, like the waves now curling atop his head.

“Damn. Even my bush is classy.”

He pulled on the tailored shirt, the collar brushing his neck. Then the pinstriped pants—he sucked in his gut to button them, which made him laugh again.

Next, the vest, snug around his torso, a gold chain dangling from the front. He slipped on the jacket. It hugged his shoulders perfectly.

He looked regal. Smug. Dangerous.

He reached for the cigar. Lit it. Inhaled deep. Coughed—just once. Then smiled.

“I’m Saul fucking Vickers.”

Clay McKinney wasn’t talking. He was grunting.

The first thing he’d done was look in the mirror and mutter, “Aw hell naw.”

His gut hung heavy. His chest was broad and furry. He had a scar across one pectoral, a tattoo on the other. His arms were thicker than his thighs used to be.

He looked down at his cock—uncut, thick, surrounded by wiry black hair. His balls hung like saddle bags.

“I smell like sweat and iron,” he muttered. “And it ain’t bad.”

The pants were hard to pull on. Canvas, stiff, gritty. But they felt right. They held his thighs together tight. No underwear. Just man and denim.

He snapped the suspenders on and rolled his shoulders. He cracked his neck. Then he saw the boots—mud-caked, scuffed—and slid them on with a grunt.

He smacked tobacco into his lip, spit in the bucket, and belched.

“I could wreck somebody.”

Felix Darrow, meanwhile, was humming as he powdered his cheeks. He was completely naked—admiring the way his hips curved now. Slender. Almost effeminate. His nipples were darker, more sensitive. He brushed his fingers across them and felt a rush of heat.

He leaned close to the mirror and smiled.

His teeth were perfect—but not Hollywood perfect. 1800s-perfect. Slightly tinted. Seductive.

The lace shirt went on first—flowing, translucent. Then the silk pants, tight at the waist and loose around the legs. He added the velvet coat, slipped on his rings, tied the cravat.

When he stepped into the heeled boots, he felt taller. Not in inches—in presence.

He blew a kiss at the mirror.

“Felix Darrow. Owner of sin.”

Outside the doors, the others were waiting. They’d all finished dressing. Each man stepped into the yard—one at a time. And then froze.

They stared at one another.

Saul was the first to speak.

“Griffin…?”

Ellis took one look and said, “Don’t call me that.”

Dev blinked. “Holy shit, you’re… huge.”

Jorge stepped out and grinned. “Y’all look like the damn cast of Deadwood.”

They stared.

Each body different.

Each voice… subtly changed.

Each man standing different.

Saul’s hand never left the cigar. Felix adjusted his cravat compulsively. Clay stood wide-legged, scratching at his side. Ellis was holding his belt, thumb hooked casually near the revolver.

“This is fucked up,” Felix said. “But also… not.”

“Y’all feel that?” Clay asked. “Like… deep in your bones?”

Ellis nodded slowly. “Yeah.”

Then, a voice echoed from the rooftop above.

Ezra.

“Gentlemen,” he said, arms crossed, smiling.

The wind caught his coat.

“Welcome to Wren Hollow. Your home for the next four and a half days.”

Felix squinted. “Wait… this is the bachelor party?”

Ezra nodded. “This is the party.”

Saul raised an eyebrow. “You serious?”

“As a heart attack.”

Ezra continued, voice low and clear:

“You will live here. Eat here. Drink here. Sleep in your cabins. Perform your duties. No one’s pretending. These roles are yours now. You’ve been prepared for this. The memory integration has already begun. By morning, your instincts will guide you.”

Clay stepped forward. “What if we don’t wanna do it?”

“You’ll want to,” Ezra said simply. “Trust me.”

Ellis narrowed his eyes. “This permanent?”

Ezra smiled. “Not technically. But the longer you wear it… the harder it is to take off.”

Then he pointed toward the town.

“Sun’s setting. Time to live like the men you were always meant to be.”

He vanished behind the chimney.

The four friends—no, not friends anymore—characters—looked at each other.

Felix let out a soft whistle. “Well, Sheriff,” he said with a grin, “might as well go see what kind of liquor you got in that saloon of mine.”

Saul flicked ash off his cigar. “And maybe try my luck at some poker. See if I can’t buy this town by tomorrow.”

Clay grunted. “I want meat.”

Ellis… just nodded.

They turned toward the town.

Ricardo stands just over six feet tall, with a powerful, solid build that commands attention without needing to speak. His skin is a rich espresso tone, deep and warm, with a slight sheen that catches the light when he moves. His beard is thick, black, and coarsely curled, peppered with strands of silver near the chin and jawline—a mark of wisdom earned, not given. It frames his square face like armor, accentuating his broad cheekbones and slightly furrowed brow.

His eyes are dark brown, almost black, with a calm, unreadable depth—like still water hiding something ancient and tender beneath. Thick lashes and arched brows give him an intensity that makes you feel seen, studied, and disarmed. His nose is wide and strong, with a gentle bump that suggests it might’ve been broken once. His lips are full, slightly chapped, and often pressed together in thought or parted just enough to reveal the edges of his gold-capped teeth—custom work that gleams when he grins.

Ricardo’s hair is cropped close on the sides, with a textured, salt-and-pepper wave on top, always brushed neatly but never fussy. Tattoos climb up both of his forearms, abstract shapes and names inked in black and red, disappearing beneath the sleeves of his tight-fitting t-shirt. He wears dark jeans that hug thick thighs, and scuffed work boots heavy with wear. His gait is wide, deliberate, and grounded—he walks like someone used to carrying weight, physical and otherwise.

He smells faintly of tobacco, motor oil, and sweat—masculine, unfiltered, lived-in. When he speaks, his voice is rough velvet, low and stretched with a lazy drawl, shaped by late nights and strong drink. It’s a voice that can comfort or command, seduce or silence.