HotLabGirl

In a small room barely accommodating an old couch piled with pillows, a narrow table cluttered with half-empty coffee mugs, and a bulky monitor perched on a wooden stand, the air hung heavy after a wild night. An open energy drink can, men's clothes—clearly the kind worn by old guys—strewn nearby, and the steady blinking of the monitor completed the scene of Trevor's modest room. A graduate student at the university, he lived here on the second floor of the campus.

However, today, just like yesterday, this nerdy bachelor's room was out of its usual state—she was here for the second day. A stunning brunette with a B or C cup, a cute face, but with tousled hair screaming, "Wash me and style me." She scratched the back of her head, puffed her glossy lips, and furrowed her brows into that now-familiar expression of annoyance.

– I still don't get it, Trev, – she drawled, pointing her finger at the microwave, – This thing, like, totally heated everything up now. But yesterday, when I did the exact same thing you just did, it, like, exploded.

Trevor tore himself away from the keyboard and slowly turned to her, blinking as if trying to comprehend whether she was serious.

– Professor… – he exhaled, realizing how absurd that title sounded now, when instead of Professor Andrew Bryant—the renowned molecular biology expert with three PhDs—he was looking at this... half-naked girl laughing at memes, with a face that looked like she just woke up from a party.

The girl tilted her head questioningly, pulling another irritated grimace, and scratched the back of her head again, as if hoping to comb out the answer.

– I know, I know, don't look at me like that, it had, like, some... man heat mode – She frowned, exhaled, and stared at the microwave.

Trevor, frozen with his hands above the keyboard, inhaled sharply.

– There's no such thing as "man heat mode," Professor… – he flinched, saying that word. The phrase "Professor" and the image of his former academic advisor, whom he had dreamed of working with, now caused dissonance. – You just forgot to remove the foil from the burrito.

– Oh… – She blinked. – Damn… seriously? Foil? That's nuts. – She rolled her eyes and shuffled her bare feet across the floor, yawning loudly, – So, like, what now? Are we still "working" on the “thing,” or are you just gonna, like, sit there staring at your shiny screen pretending to be all smart?

Trevor exhaled noisily, ran his hand over his face, and finally turned to her completely. To say it was hard to look at his former academic advisor was an understatement. The face that yesterday radiated sternness and intellect now barely concealed irritation, like that of a disgruntled high school girl, and her breasts—the very same breasts he tried so hard not to stare at—barely fit into the makeshift top made from his own men's T-shirt, constantly threatening to slip out from under the fabric.

– We're working, yeah, – he replied slowly. – But, to be precise, I'm working. And you, Professor... Ugh, no-no-no, sorry, I can't call you that anymore... – Trevor closed his eyes for a second, as if gathering his thoughts before continuing, – Why did you cut up my T-shirt?

– Don't use that tone, – she snapped, grimacing and putting her hands behind her head, causing the fabric over her breasts to stretch even more. – I'm, like, totally stressed out, if you haven't noticed! The body's different, the brain... – she paused, frowning, – like, weird. Everything's annoying. Even you. Especially you.

– You cut it with scissors... right down the middle, – he pointed at the T-shirt barely clinging to her body. – That was my favorite one. From Comic-Con.

– Ugh, it was, like, choking me! You have no idea how hard it is to breathe when you’ve got these... – She gestured downward at herself and rolled her eyes. – These things... I mean, they’re heavy! I thought they were just, like, soft pillows, but no, they’re, like... real. Damn.

– You're talking about your breasts, Professor... – Trevor winced like it physically hurt him.

– Well duh, am I just supposed to ignore them? – She threw her hands up. – I looked at myself in the mirror... do you know how weird that is? I winked at myself by accident, or maybe not by accident, but then I blushed sooo hard! Ugh... I’m such a cutie!

– Professor, – he tried to stay calm, but his voice trembled, – you used to be one of the smartest people in the country. You calculated neural linkages in tissue cultures down to micron precision. And now you... you...

– What? What boring crap are you going on about now?! – She whipped around, arms crossed under her tits, clearly making a point. – So what, you think I’m, like, stupid now or something?

– Well... – Trevor hesitated. – You tried to plug a hairdryer into an HDMI port, Professor.

– It had the same plug! And weren’t you the one who said we needed to “warm up the data” yesterday? – She snorted, proud of her so-called logic. – I was just following scientific reasoning.

He sank back into the chair and let out a heavy sigh.

– We need to figure something out. The drug worked, but not how we expected. The age regressed, but the gender changed, and the cognitive function...

– Whatever. Who cares? I don’t anymore. I cared yesterday, but now, meh, not really, – she waved a hand and wandered back toward the microwave, her hips clearly starting to throw off her coordination. – So, like, I need new shoes now, right? These slippers are, like, not working for me.

– Those are my slippers.

– Exactly! – she laughed. – Because they’re guy slippers! And now I need girl ones, y’know, for... feet like these, – she turned and showed off her foot, – see how dainty it is now? Like a ballerina’s. Maybe I should start ballet? Oh my god, I could totally post dance videos like those TikTok girls!

Trevor went silent, staring at the monitor, trying hard not to think too vividly, while she studied her own legs, arms, and made weird little movements.

– We need to fix this, – he muttered. – Put everything back. This isn’t normal.

– Pfft, it’s normal to me. I tried reading my dissertation today — sooo boring. Like, why did I even waste all those years on that stuff?

– You did it to push science forward, to save lives, to change how we understand aging, – Trevor turned to her, his voice almost desperate. – You were a genius. And now...

He stopped because she, bouncing cheerfully, was now standing in front of the mirror, wiggling her ass and watching the shirt ride up to expose her lower back.

– And now I can wear whatever I want! – she sang, twirling for effect. – And btw, did you notice? My ass is, like... so round! I used to think that was genetics, but apparently not — it’s like, some kind of “female gravity level” or whatever you call it?

– This is... this is a disaster, – he whispered, covering his face with both hands.

– I’d say it’s evolution, baby! – she winked at him clumsily with a goofy grin. – Anyway, you go be all brainy or whatever, I’m off to film a TikTok. Oh! Can you help me pick a username? I was thinking, like, “HotLabGirl,” but maybe you can come up with something smarter?

And with that, she cheerfully flounced into the next room, leaving Trevor surrounded by coffee mugs, tangled wires, and the shattered remnants of scientific ambition. He let his head drop onto the desk.

– We’re so totally doomed.