You jabbed a finger at the photo of the bodyguard. “Inez. If I’m going to bluff this, I’d rather rely on silence and muscle.”
Marcus nodded, satisfied. “Good. You’ll stand, glower, and let me talk. Play to type.”
Preparations were brutal. Inez’s dossier read like a special forces résumé—Brazilian by birth, trained in three martial arts, rumored to have killed a man with her bare hands in Marrakesh. She wasn’t just muscle—she was Verena’s shield.
The MorphogenCore chamber was sterile, humming, the air charged like a thunderstorm. Marcus keyed in the overlays.
The moment the machine swallowed you, pain tore through your spine. Your body stretched taller, wider. Muscles swelled across your shoulders, thighs thickened. Your hands clenched and you nearly cried out at the alien bulk.
When it was done, you emerged like a statue carved from bronze. In the mirror, Inez’s hard face stared back. Broad cheekbones, cropped hair, eyes that brooked no nonsense.
But what stunned you wasn’t the muscle. It was the femininity. The jut of breasts on your chest—smaller than Camille’s, but still heavy, still wrong. The softness of hips under muscle. You turned sideways, and the curve of your ass filled the suit like it had been sculpted to.
Your voice came out husky, accented, when you whispered: “Inez.”
Marcus laughed, his own form shrunk into Miriam. “You look like you could break me in half.”
You flexed an arm. Muscle bulged. It was power, intoxicating and terrifying. But when you shifted your stance, the sway of your hips betrayed you. You weren’t just muscle. You were her.
And tomorrow, you’d have to fool Verena with silence and steel.