The sun hammered down, baking the cracked pavement of the narrow alley. Carter lurched into the alley, his body trembling, his breath ragged and uneven. He was dressed in a flowing abaya, the black fabric catching the sunlight in glints of gold, the hijab cinched tight around his head, constricting and unyielding. The clothes clung to him, heavy and oppressive, the fabric shifting and clinging, alive and insistent. His voice cracked, deep tones warring with a new, melodic pitch. “Mira… please… I can’t… I can’t stop it…”
Mira looked up from her phone, her iced coffee slipping from her hand and shattering on the pavement. “Carter!? What the FUCK… is this a joke!?” She stepped closer, her sandals crunching over the debris, her eyes wide with horror. His jawline softened, the stubble vanishing as his skin smoothed, the sensation a searing, molten pressure reshaping his face. His chest heaved, the abaya straining against the swell of new breasts, the fabric digging into his skin with sharp, unrelenting pressure. His hips widened, the bones shifting with a sickening pop, but his legs still bore the remnants of muscle, the hem of the abaya torn at the thighs. His skin was mottled, patches of golden-brown spreading unevenly over pale pink. “Your… your chest! Are those—!?” Mira’s voice cracked as she cried out in horror.
Carter collapsed against a dumpster, his knees buckling. He moaned, a sound that started deep in his chest but ended in a high, feminine whimper. “Mira… I can’t stop… make it stop!” She crouched beside him, her hands hovering over his shifting body, unsure where to touch. “What the hell did you do!? Did you take something!?” “It’s not… drugs…” Carter gasped, his voice cracking again. “It’s her… the woman in the alley… she gave me these…” He tugged at the abaya, the fabric shifting and clinging, alive and insistent. “It’s… beautiful… but it hurts…”
Mira’s thoughts scattered, her vision swimming as she stared at Carter… Aisha. Her chest tightened. “We need to get you to a hospital… now!” She reached for his arm, but he flinched away. “No! You don’t understand…” His voice shifted, deep tones fading into something softer, sweeter. “It’s like… it’s like I’m being rewritten… my thoughts… my body…” He clutched his head, his fingers tangling in hair that was growing longer, thicker, the strands warm and alive against his scalp. “I don’t want this! I didn’t ask for this! Please, Mira, you have to help me! I can’t… I can’t lose myself! Don’t let me disappear!”
Mira grabbed his shoulders, shaking him. Her fingers sank into something soft, the fabric of the abaya smooth and silken against her palms. Beneath it, his shoulders felt narrow, delicate, almost feminine. She recoiled, her hands jerking back as if burned. “Carter, snap out of it! This isn’t real!” But it was. His body surged with change, the muscles in his arms dissolving into soft, yielding curves, his hips flaring wide as the abaya cinched itself tighter, the fabric digging into his skin with sharp, unrelenting pressure. His face was the worst. The stubble vanished in seconds, his jawline dissolving into soft, feminine lines. His lips swelled, his eyelashes grew thick and dark, his skin smoothing into a warm, flawless caramel, reshaped by an unseen, relentless hand. He… She moaned again, the sound high and melodic, almost euphoric. “Mira, please…” The voice was no longer Carter’s. It was higher, accented, foreign. “It’s too late… I can’t fight it…”
Mira stumbled back, her hands flying to her mouth as her vision blurred. “No… no, this isn’t real. This can’t be real!” The hijab tightened around Carter’s head, the fabric stitching itself into place with sharp, needle-like pain fading into a warm, suffocating embrace. His eyes fluttered shut, and when they opened, they were softer, submissive. “I am Aisha now,” she said, her voice steady now, higher and accented.
Mira’s chest tightened, her heart pounding. “This is insane. We’re going to a hospital. Now.” She grabbed Aisha’s wrist, ignoring the electric hum beneath her skin. “Come on!” A faint tingle shot up Mira’s arm, so subtle she almost missed it. She yanked her hand back, staring at her fingertips. “What the—!?” Aisha’s lips curled into a knowing smile as she pulled her wrist free. “Allah chose you too, sister.” “Chose me? What are you talking about!?” Mira’s voice trembled, her reflection in a rain puddle catching her eye. Her face looked different: softer, her eyes wider, her hair darker at the roots. The fabric of her jeans began to shift, the denim reforming into the flowing folds of an abaya.
Aisha adjusted her hijab gracefully. “The first touch was all it took.” Mira’s chest tightened, her heart pounding. “No… no, NO…” But as she cried out, she felt it: the tingle in her fingertips spreading. A warm sensation crawling up her arms, spreading through her body.
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