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The disorientation was absolute. One second, I was drowning in the static-laced murmur of a late-night infomercial from my hotel room TV, the next, I was drowning in a cacophony of sound: frantic voices, thumping bass, and a shrill, ringing in ears that weren't mine. The smell hit me next—hot stage lights, hairspray, and the cloying sweetness of expensive perfume. My vision swam into focus, reflecting back at me from a brightly lit mirror surrounded by glowing bulbs.

The face staring back, wide-eyed with a panic that mirrored my own, was Selena Vance. The Selena Vance. Chart-topping pop princess, viral dance phenomenon, and the subject of the “getting ready for her big comeback performance” special I’d apparently fallen asleep watching. My heart—no, her heart—was a frantic bird trapped behind the ivory lace of a dangerously low-cut bustier.

“Two minutes, Sel! You’re killing that lip!” a stylist chirped, dabbing at my—her—mouth with a tissue. The sensation was a distant pressure. I was locked in, a prisoner in a palace of flesh and sequins.

I recognized the feeling instantly. The profound otherness, the weight distribution all wrong, the soft, restrictive hug of garments I’d never worn. It had been years since that strange, surreal summer, and I’d convinced myself it was a bizarre, isolated episode. Yet here I was, miles from my own life, piloting a global superstar’s body on the most important night of her career.

A stage manager burst into the dressing room. “Places, Selena! Now!”

Muscle memory, not mine, took over. My body—Selena’s body—stood up smoothly on terrifyingly high silver stilettos. I followed the frantic waves of the crew, my mind screaming internally. The outfit was a masterpiece of strategic illusion: the lace bustier, a sheer black mesh panel snaking down her toned stomach, and impossibly tight leather shorts that gleamed under the lights. Every inch of skin sparkled with body glitter.

We emerged into the controlled chaos of backstage. I could see the dark silhouette of the audience beyond the curtain, hear their muffled, excited roar. A technician clipped a wireless pack to the back of my shorts, the touch making me jump.

“Deep breath, you’ve got this,” a voice said, and I realized it was my own—hers—a husky, rehearsed whisper of self-encouragation.

The intro track for her new single, “Neon Ghost,” began to boom—a synth-heavy, pulsing beat I knew from the radio. The curtain began to rise. The roar of the crowd became a physical wall of sound. Adrenaline, pure and electric, flooded the system. Her system. And with it came a ghost—a powerful, performative instinct that surged to the front.

The lights hit, blinding and hot. I was thrust into the center of the stage. And then, I stopped thinking.

Her body knew the choreography. It was in the muscle fibers, the trained reflexes. When the first lyric cue hit, my mouth opened and her voice poured out—powerful, clear, and perfectly on key. It was surreal. I was a passenger, watching as this borrowed form executed sharp, precise dance moves, hitting every mark, selling every coy smile and defiant glance to the camera. I felt the burn in her thighs from the high kicks, the strain in her core as she dipped and rolled. The crowd’s energy was a drug, feeding the performance. I wasn’t me anymore; I was the conduit for “Selena Vance,” and she was, frankly, incredible.

The three-minute song felt like both an eternity and a heartbeat. As the final note rang out and the crowd erupted, the performative ghost receded, leaving me dizzy and drenched in sweat under the blazing lights. Before I could even process it, a smooth-talking host was guiding me to a plush interview chair on a smaller set.

The lights were softer here, but no less exposing. The host, a man with impeccably white teeth, leaned in.

“Selena! What a performance! ‘Neon Ghost’ is already trending worldwide. Tell us, where did this new, edgier sound come from?”

I froze. My mind went blank. I had no idea what Selena’s talking points were. I felt a smile—her famous, dimpled smile—stretch across my face automatically. And then, her voice, slightly breathless from the dance, answered.

“It’s about shedding skin, you know?” I heard myself say, the words feeling both alien and instinctive. “Embracing the shadows to find a brighter light. It’s my most personal work yet.” The answers came, smooth and practiced, discussing “the journey” and “creative rebirth.” I nodded at the right times, laughed a throaty, charming laugh at his jokes. I was watching a masterclass in celebrity interview from the front row of her skull. It was terrifying and fascinating.

Finally, it was over. A sleek black SUV whisked “me” away from the studio, through a gauntlet of screaming fans, to a towering, opulent hotel. Security ushered me directly into a private elevator that opened into a sprawling penthouse suite. The door clicked shut, and for the first time in hours, there was silence.

Alone.

The adrenaline crash was monumental. I stumbled into the vast, minimalist living room, the city glittering silently beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows. I peeled off the silver stilettos, my—her—feet aching. I needed to understand, to feel. This wasn't a lucid dream. The sequins digging into my skin, the lingering taste of lipstick, the profound ache in muscles I’d never used—it was all violently real.

I explored. I ran my hands, now tipped with long, elegant acrylics, over the curve of my hip, the startling swell of my chest beneath the lace. In the suite’s massive bathroom, under cool, clinical light, I examined every detail. The sharp cut of her jawline, the smudge of stubborn mascara, the elegant slope of her neck. It was a masterpiece of genetics and maintenance. A commodity. A weapon.

My exploration grew bolder, driven by a curiosity that was now a familiar, hungry companion. I found her luggage, a set of pristine designer hard-shell cases. In a zippered compartment of her overnight bag, nestled next to silk sleep masks and vitamin packets, my fingers closed around something smooth and weighty.

I pulled it out. It was a vibrator, but not a simple one. It was sleek, obsidian-black, and elegantly contoured, looking more like a modern art sculpture than a sex toy. Expensive. Efficient. The ultimate tool for a woman who had everything except, perhaps, time.

A plan, decadent and devious, crystalized in my mind. I had no idea how I got here, or how long I had. But I was going to make the most of it.

Carrying the toy, I walked to the king-sized bed, shedding the sweaty performance outfit as I went. I left it in a glittering heap on the floor. In the en suite shower, I washed away the stage, the interview, the persona. I used her products—floral, complex, devastatingly expensive—and marveled at the water sluicing over this stolen form.

Wrapped in one of the hotel’s thick robes, I picked up her phone from the nightstand. It recognized my face—her face—instantly. The lock screen was a tasteful, abstract image. I navigated to her private social media account, the one with the blue checkmark and millions of followers. My own personal account was a ghost by comparison, a quiet, forgotten profile.

A wicked smile touched my lips—her lips. I opened the direct messages, searched for my own name, and found my profile. I started a new message. Then, I propped the phone up on a stack of art books on the dresser, angled toward the bed. I hit record.

The robe pooled at my feet. I lay back on the crisp sheets, the city lights painting my skin in pale gold. I turned the sleek, black device on. It hummed to life with a quiet, powerful vibration. My exploration this time was not one of shocked discovery, but of deliberate, luxurious conquest. I learned what this body liked, guided by its sharp, gasping responses. I took my time, bringing myself to the edge again and again with the fiendishly clever toy, each wave of pleasure a deeper conquest of this strange, wonderful reality.

As I finally tumbled over, a choked, gasping cry that was pure Selena Vance echoing in the silent suite, I held the phone’s gaze until the last shudder passed.

Breathless, I reached for the phone, stopped the recording, and reviewed it. The video was dark, artistic, and undeniably, intensely erotic. Just a few seconds, but unmistakable. I attached it to the direct message to my own account. I didn’t type a word. Just the video file, sent into the void.

I put the phone down, a deep, satisfied exhaustion seeping into my borrowed bones. As I drifted into sleep, the last thought I had was of my own phone, miles away, silently lighting up in the dark with a notification. A message from a goddess, containing a secret only I would understand. A ghost, captured in neon.