The air in my apartment was thick with exhaustion and the lingering stench of energy drinks. Finals had officially wrecked us—Kevin was sprawled across the couch like a corpse, James was rubbing his temples like he was trying to erase the last 72 hours from memory, and Steve and Russel were slumped on the floor, barely conscious.

Russel scrolled lazily through his phone before suddenly sitting up. "No way. You guys seeing this shit?" He turned the screen toward us, revealing a Reddit thread with the title: "BodyPossession.com is LEGIT—I spent an hour as my hot neighbor and now I’m addicted."

Kevin snorted. "Yeah, and I’m Elon Musk. That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard."

James groaned. "If people could just steal bodies, the world would be a nightmare. Think about it—politicians, celebrities, your ex? Total chaos."

Russel smirked. "Tell that to the thousands of people swearing it works. Says you upload a pic, pay in crypto, and boom—first hour’s free. Like a trial run."

Steve, who had been half-asleep, cracked an eye open. "Okay, hypothetically—if this wasn’t complete bullshit—who would you even possess?"

A slow, stupid grin spread across my face.

I grabbed my laptop. "Only one way to find out."

The guys groaned, half-heartedly protesting, but curiosity got the better of them as they crowded behind me. I typed BodyPossession.com into Google, fully expecting nothing but scam links.

But there it was—first result. No shady redirects, no sketchy warnings. Just a sleek black-and-white homepage with bold letters:

"TEMPORARY BODY HOSTING. FIRST HOUR FREE."

Silence.

Russel exhaled. "What the actual fuck."

Kevin jabbed my arm. "This has got to be fake."

I clicked the gallery. Hundreds of faces loaded—some smiling for the camera, others caught unaware, like the site had scraped every social media profile in existence. A cold tingle slithered down my neck, but I ignored it, scrolling faster.

"Let’s keep it simple," I said, pulling up the Drews’ Instagram—our insanely hot neighbors who lived one floor above us.

Samantha Drew, late 40s but looking like she could pass for a decade younger, full lips and curves that made yoga pants look like a crime. Henry Drew, six-foot-something of sculpted muscle, the kind of guy who probably bench-pressed his kids for fun. Their daughter, Sophie, medical student by day, knockout by night, with that dangerous combo of brains and a body that belonged in a magazine. And the twins—Abby, a lithe, bright-eyed brunette with legs for days, and Lance, her cocky, broad-shouldered counterpart who acted like the dorm showers were his personal runway.

Steve let out a low whistle. "Oh yeah. Mom’s mine."

"The hell she is," James snapped, elbowing him. "Dibs don’t mean shit—this isn’t monopoly."

Russel pinched the bridge of his nose. "Guys. First things first—who the hell gets last pick? Because I know none of you are volunteering."

I tuned them out. My fingers moved before I could second-guess—cropping Henry’s sharply defined jawline from a Cabo vacation pic and dropping it onto the site.

HOST SELECTED: HENRY DREW
FIRST HOUR FREE. SESSION BEGINS IN 10…

Kevin yanked at the laptop. "John, no—think for one goddamn second—!"

Russel just cackled. "Oh, you beautiful, reckless bastard—"

The screen flared white.

Then—nothing.