Just a routine job for a time traveler

— Ugh, damn it, what the hell... — he muttered through clenched teeth, struggling to fasten the cursed strap on the shoe. His fingers trembled—whether from frustration or the unsettling softness of these unfamiliar hands that refused to cooperate. A cigarette dangled precariously from the corner of his lips as he cursed and tugged at the clasp.

Click. Done.

He straightened up, shaking his head irritably in an attempt to fling back the long, heavy hair that clung to his face. Ugh. A strand fell into his eyes again.

— Just my fucking luck... — he grumbled, clenching the cigarette between his teeth and glancing around nervously.

The cigarette slipped slightly from his lips as he tilted his head back in frustration, trying once more to push the hair out of his way. Some strands clung stubbornly to his face, tickling his neck, while the damn bra dug into his ribs, pressing awkwardly. How could anyone wear this crap all day?

He took a drag—a sharp, deep pull, like he always did, but—

— Gahh...! Shit, — he doubled over, coughing so hard that a sharp pain shot through his chest. His vision blurred, his head spun, and his lungs felt like they were on fire. The cigarette dropped from his lips, burning his fingers. — Goddamn it...

— Emily? — a surprised woman’s voice came from behind.

He froze. Through the haze of coughing, frustration, and the hellish heels on his feet, he turned slowly. A blonde woman in a bright red dress, a large bag slung over her shoulder, stood at the edge of the sidewalk, staring at him in shock.

"Oh, great. This girl’s acquaintances too," he thought bitterly. Agent Crawford, a forty-year-old man with combat experience, now forced to stumble around in the body of a fragile librarian, was heading for the temporal anomaly. Small talk with Emily’s friends was not part of the plan.

— Uh... Hi, — he croaked, scrambling to remember who she was.

The cigarette lay smoldering on the pavement near the cursed shoe. His memory resisted, but fragments of someone else’s life surfaced as soon as he focused. Amanda. A friend. She’d gotten Emily the library job and always had great advice about life—career, health, and, of course, how it was about time she found a boyfriend. After all, Emily was 28 and had never been in a relationship.

— Emily? — Amanda repeated, taking a step closer. — Were you... were you just smoking?

— What? No, of course not... — Crawford waved his hand dismissively, tripping over his words. His voice was soft, too high. Disgusting.

Amanda kept staring at him, and an unpleasant tightening began to creep under his ribs. It was some sort of awkward, sticky shame, like he’d failed an important test or let... someone down.

"Goddamn it, these aren’t my feelings!"

Grinding his teeth, Crawford suppressed the irritation. It wasn’t him. It was her emotions. Someone else’s—soft, too gentle. Emily was clearly the type who’d feel awful for accidentally offending someone, not the type who could blurt out something harsh and walk away.

"What the hell? They told me the host’s personality wouldn’t affect me—and that landing in a woman’s body was highly unlikely!" Crawford clenched his jaw, the heat of his anger rising alongside the lingering taste of tobacco smoke in his throat.

They promised. Coordinator Williams had stood in his office, arms crossed confidently, assuring him: “This is a standard procedure, cadet. The host’s emotions and sensations won’t affect you. Stay focused on the mission.”

"Yeah, right. Unaffected, my ass."

Now he was standing in the body of some fragile librarian, nearly blushing under the gaze of her friend, squeezed by a bra and this damn sense of guilt. He needed control. Clear instructions. Enter the host—neutralize the anomaly—exit. That was all.

Focusing his thoughts and shoving all those strange, invasive feelings aside, he finally blurted out:

— Alright, I... I gotta go, babe! — Crawford spun on his heels, the shoe making an awful creaking sound, threatening to slip off.

Amanda froze.

— W-what? Emily, you—

— I said I gotta go! — Crawford waved a hand, feeling irritation boil up again in his chest. His chest. The slight bounce as he moved only pissed him off more.

He stormed away, but the sound of the heels—click, click, click—against the pavement only added to his tension.

"Focus. Mission first. Stay sharp, Emi—damn it, why the hell did I just call myself that?!"

Crawford quickened his pace, frustration piling up—at the heels, the tight clothes, these damn overwhelming emotions that wouldn’t stop. The nagging guilt gnawed under his ribs, growing stronger with every step he took away from Amanda. And the more distance he put between them, the clearer it became: it wasn't his guilt.

It was Emily's. Her consciousness. Leftover feelings trapped in this body, echoing like a phantom.

"Focus point: the old clock repair shop. Two blocks away. The anomaly should be there. Stay on task."

He clenched his teeth, forcing himself to concentrate. Mission. Objective. Minimal contact with the environment. All these emotions—they were just... strange side effects. A glitch. Something that wasn't supposed to happen. He was a professional. An agent. He didn’t have to play the part of some shy little librarian.

What the hell is wrong with this operation?

Whenever he had possessed other men, he had never felt their emotions. And when he returned, there would be a formal report. No—an official complaint. This was violating protocol. All of it.

But these heels...

Click-click-click!

The sound echoed louder, grating on his nerves. His hair clung to his face, tickling his skin in the most annoying way, while the clothes felt... too noticeable. As if they were designed to attract attention. Tight top, form-fitting pants—far too flashy for the quiet librarian Emily supposedly was.

"It's because I wanted Mason to notice me..."

The thought shot through Crawford’s mind, making him flinch as if burned.

"The hell?! No! Focus, Crawford!" he hissed under his breath, glancing around.

And, of course, Amanda was still following him.

— Emily, wait! — she called out, quickening her pace.

"Don't turn around. Don't speak. Just keep walking."

But his legs—those thin, soft, too delicate legs—froze anyway.

— Damn it, — he muttered under his breath.

Amanda caught up, her face tightening with concern. Up close, her gaze was even more intense, as if she was trying to figure out what was wrong with him.

— You're acting weird. You... you don’t smoke, — she said quietly, confusion clear in her voice. — What’s going on? We were fine yesterday. Is this... Is this about that jerk from the catalog department? You told me you—

— No, I— I mean, it's not—! — Crawford cut her off, waving his hands too sharply.

And that’s when it hit.

A painful, clenching spasm deep in his chest.

Not physical pain. Not his pain.

Hurt.

A soft, sticky ache, sharp but delicate, like a wound still too fresh to touch.

"Why does she always think I'm weak? Like I can't handle things on my own? It's just... because of Mason..."

The thought wasn’t his.

Crawford stiffened, recoiling internally as yet another wave of those foreign, too-personal emotions slammed into him. No. No, damn it. These feelings weren’t his!

Exhaling sharply, he fought for control, but his body betrayed him—trembling, unsteady. It was as if every trace of Emily’s personality was seeping through, blurring into his own thoughts.

He wasn’t used to this.

His missions were always cold. Precise. No emotional involvement. No lingering traces of the host's mind. Definitely none of these... choking waves of guilt, anxiety, and the need to please.

— Look, Amanda, I... I don’t have time, — he forced out, his voice still too soft, too strained, like it was apologizing all on its own.

Amanda's eyes narrowed further.

— Emily... — her voice was quiet but pressing. — You’re trembling. Just talk to me. What’s going on?

"Tell her to back off. You're fine. Just walk away. You don't owe her anything."

But instead, his throat tightened.

His legs stayed rooted.

And that damn lump in his chest refused to go away.

— Emily... — Amanda stepped closer, lowering her voice as if she’d figured it all out. — This is about him again, isn’t it? You were trying for him.

"For him?"

Crawford felt it rising inside—a wave of... anger? No. Not his. Hurt. Pain. All of it belonged to her. Emily. Her feelings, her disappointments.

"Why do you always think I'm being stupid? Maybe I just want someone to notice me! For someone to finally say I'm beautiful!"

— Stop it. — He wasn’t even sure if he had said it aloud or only in his head.

— What? — Amanda frowned.

"Shit"

He squeezed his eyes shut, drawing a sharp breath. Enough. Control. Mission. Get it together.

— I... I really have to go. — His voice wavered, betraying him again, and it only pissed him off more. — I'm fine.

He turned sharply and started walking away.

But, of course, Amanda followed.

— Emily! — Her voice sharpened. — No, you're not fine! You're acting weird! Why the hell are you even dressed like that? Hey! Stop! Talk to me!

"Of course. Typical Amanda. I've told her to leave me alone twice already, but no—she just has to keep pushing."

Crawford clenched his teeth as the knot in his throat tightened. His steps slowed involuntarily. His legs—those damn weak, fragile legs—refused to move any faster.

He just needed to get to the clock shop. Neutralize the anomaly. Get out of this body.

But this body... these emotions...

"God, she just won't quit!"

Suddenly, he stopped dead in his tracks, spun around, and exhaled through gritted teeth:

— Enough, Amanda! I'm so sick of this!

Amanda blinked, startled.

— What...?

— I'm... tired! — His voice, soft and high, trembled with anger, hurt... and something else—something warmer, raw, painful. Not his. Hers. But it was pouring out, unstoppable. — Do you know what hurts the most? Trying. Trying to be better. To feel beautiful. To be noticed. For someone to just... see you. And still feeling invisible!

Amanda took a step back, clearly taken aback.

— Emily, I—

— No! Let me finish! — Crawford could feel the burn behind his eyes now, the sting of tears threatening to rise—and it infuriated him even more. He jabbed a finger toward nowhere in particular, his chest heaving. — And you! You think you know how I should live my life better than I do! It's always, "You're too shy, Emily. You need a boyfriend, Emily!" And when I actually try to change, when I do something different—you're still not happy!

Every word hit like a punch to his chest, burning hot and bitter. Foolish. Emotional.

This wasn't him. Not Crawford. It was her. But he couldn’t stop now.

— Maybe I just want someone to finally see me, Amanda! Maybe I'm tired of being... invisible!

Silence.

His breathing was ragged, heart pounding so hard it felt like it might echo through his chest. Amanda stared at him, wide-eyed, completely speechless.

— Emily... — she whispered at last. — I... I didn’t mean...

— I have to go, — Crawford cut her off, voice hoarse as he spun on his heel.

"What the hell was that?"

He stormed ahead, heels clicking faster, his body trembling, every muscle tense as if he’d just snapped. His throat still ached, breath uneven, and that horrible, clenching void in his chest wouldn’t leave. Like he had either held back something important...or said too damn much.

"They’re not your feelings. They’re hers. Focus. Clock shop. Two blocks. Mission."

But no matter how hard he tried, the feeling that he had just genuinely lost control, as if it had been him, not Emily, wouldn’t go away.