You pointed to the brunette. “Miriam. She’s cerebral, subtle. I can manage that better than playing royalty or muscle.”
Marcus smirked. “Figures. Fine—I’ll take Camille. I always wanted to know what it’s like to be six feet of legs.”
Miriam’s file was dense: linguist, economist, consultant on three continents. She lived in details. The risk was that Verena knew her better than anyone—one wrong phrase and you’d be exposed.
The swap was quiet but deep, like sinking into water. Your body shrank, bones narrowing, chest tightening. Breasts swelled against your ribs, your thighs pressed closer together. You gasped, clutching yourself, overwhelmed by the difference.
In the mirror, a slim brunette stared back. Miriam’s eyes were sharp, her glasses perched perfectly. Her lips parted in shock—your lips, painted red.
“Christ,” you muttered, hearing the clear soprano. “I sound—”
“Like Miriam,” Marcus said, now Camille, towering, gorgeous, smug.
You adjusted your glasses, feeling their unfamiliar weight. The breasts tugged at your chest when you bent forward; your hips brushed together with every step. You felt fragile, exposed—and brilliant.
Miriam’s skin tingled with intellect. And tomorrow, you’d have to wield it.