Welcome to

The Friday evening sun cast long, lazy shadows across the suburban cul-de-sac. Inside the tidy two-story home of Ryan and Katy Powell, the air was a mixture of last-minute hustle and quiet melancholy.

You, Ryan, stood in the foyer, watching your wife of three years, Katy, do a final frantic check of her carry-on. At twenty-seven, she was a whirlwind of organized energy, her blonde ponytail swishing as she muttered to herself. “Laptop charger, presentation notes, okay, I think that’s everything.”

“You’ll be great,” you said, pulling her into a brief, tight hug. You could feel the excitement thrumming through her, mixed with the sadness of leaving. “Knock ‘em dead in Houston. I’ll be right here when you get back.”

She smiled up at you, her hazel eyes warm. “I know. Just… don’t live on takeout. And my mom said she’d stop by with a casserole, so be nice to her.”

“Always am,” you grinned, though the thought of your mother-in-law’s well-intentioned but slightly smothering visits was its own unique form of endurance training. You walked her to the door, shared a lingering kiss, and watched as her sedan backed out of the driveway. She gave a final wave before turning onto the main road, leaving the house in a sudden, profound quiet.

With a sigh, you headed to your home office, a modern space dominated by a large monitor and sleek electronics. You had a few emails to send before you could truly call it a weekend. You’d just settled into your ergonomic chair when a firm, familiar knock echoed from the front door.

Right on schedule, you thought.

Opening the door revealed Melissa Jenkins, Katy’s mother. At fifty-one, she was a portrait of curated, mature femininity. Her brunette hair, elegantly streaked with silver, was styled in soft waves that framed a sun-kissed face with knowing, sunken eyes and a distinct, characterful nose. She bore a striking, older resemblance to Katy. She wore a stylish, knee-length dress in a rich olive green that complemented her complexion, cinched at the waist to highlight her curvy hips. A delicate gold necklace lay against her collarbone, and modest heels clicked on your welcome mat. In her hands was a glass dish covered with foil—the promised casserole.

“Ryan, honey,” she said, her voice a smooth, maternal alto. “I just wanted to drop this off and make sure you were set for the week. Katy worries, you know.”

“Come on in, Melissa. You didn’t have to,” you said, stepping aside. She glided in, her perfume—something floral and expensive—filling the entryway.

“Nonsense. A man can’t live on protein bars and optimism.” She set the casserole on the small, ornate entryway table—the one that held keys, mail, and Katy’s collection of quirky souvenirs. Her eyes scanned the room with polite scrutiny. “Plants watered? Trash day is Tuesday, remember.”

“I remember,” you chuckled, leaning against the wall. “I promise I won’t let the house fall into chaos.”

“I believe you,” she said, though her tone suggested otherwise. She turned to leave, her shoulder bag swinging. As she did, the strap caught on the small, ornate statue sitting pride of place on the table—a bizarre, grinning figurine of what looked like a dancing alligator man that Katy had brought back from a trip to New Orleans.

It teetered for a heart-stopping second.

“Oh!” Melissa gasped, reaching for it.

You lunged forward. “Careful—”

Your hands collided. Instead of catching it, you sent the statue flying. It hit the hardwood floor with a sound like a gunshot, shattering into a dozen jagged clay pieces.

A beat of stunned silence hung in the air.

“Oh, Ryan, I’m so sorry,” Melissa began, her hand flying to her mouth. “Katy loved that ugly little thing—”

But her words were cut off.

From the shattered fragments, a strange, ethereal light began to pulse—not white, but a deep, phosphorescent violet. It swelled instantly, filling the entryway with an impossible, silent brilliance. You couldn’t move. You couldn’t blink. You were frozen, yet acutely aware of a profound, internal tearing sensation.

You saw it happen.

A translucent, blue-hued ghost of yourself was violently ripped from your physical body. It was a naked, spiritual echo of Ryan Powell—muscular, male, confused. At the same time, from Melissa’s stunned form, a pink-hued specter of her was yanked free—a nude, feminine silhouette with full curves and flowing hair.

The two spectral forms crossed in the blinding light.

Your blue essence was sucked into Melissa’s empty, waiting corporeal shell. The feeling was horrifically intimate. Your flat, muscular chest did not fill out the heavy, soft weight of her breasts; they hung on your new frame, unfamiliar and sagging against the blouse of her dress. As your spiritual hips slid to match hers, your narrower backside failed to occupy the full, curvy expanse of her posterior, leaving a strange, hollow sensation. Worst of all was the crushing, cramming pressure in the groin. Your spiritual penis and testicles had nowhere to go in the flat, female architecture of her pelvis. They were smashed back, squished into an agonizing, phantom knot against bone and an absence.

Across from you, you saw Melissa’s pink essence forced into your body. Her shorter arms strained to fill your longer limbs, her lack of muscle leaving your biceps looking oddly deflated. Her heavy breasts were pressed like twin soft pillows against the hard, flat plane of your pectorals, invisible but straining against the fabric of your t-shirt. And where your penis and balls hung, there was nothing of her spiritual form to inhabit them; they dangled, a disconnected physical appendage with no internal owner.

The light vanished as suddenly as it appeared.

The world snapped back into focus. The familiar entryway. The smell of casserole and perfume. The shattered statue.

But everything was wrong.

You were looking up at your own face. You saw your own features—your jaw, your eyes, your short brown hair—wearing an expression of abject, open-mouthed horror. You were seeing yourself from the outside.

And you were holding… your own hands. But they weren’t your hands. They were slimmer, softer, with perfectly manicured nails and a delicate gold band on the left ring finger. A chunky bracelet sat on the wrist. You looked down.

The olive green dress stretched over a mature, feminine body. Wide hips. The soft, heavy weight of breasts against the neckline. The gentle swell of a stomach. Thick, bare legs ending in nude heels.

A high, startled gasp that wasn’t your voice escaped your lips.

From your own mouth—from the body that was yours but now held your mother-in-law—came a deep, bewildered baritone you knew as your own. “What in the Lord’s name…?”

The voice that came from you—from Melissa’s body—was a terrified, shaky version of her alto. “Melissa?”

Your own face—Ryan’s face—paled. “Ryan? Is that… you in there?”

Panic, cold and sharp, shot through you. You were inside Melissa Jenkins. And she was inside you.

Quick Actions:
1. Stagger to a mirror to see your new reflection.
2. Look down at the broken statue pieces, trying to understand.
3. Speak to Melissa (in your body), voice trembling with shock.