From CEO to waitress

In a small but bustling café within the office of a large American corporation, the noise was constant: plates clanged, the coffee machine filled the air with steam and the rich aroma of freshly ground beans, employees murmured about work matters, pretending to be fully absorbed in their tasks. But it was just a facade. From time to time, glances discreetly—or not so discreetly—slid toward the gray couch by the window, where she sat.

Of course they stared. How could they not, after she had loudly declared a few hours ago that she was, in fact, Mike Rogers, the company's CEO? And, strangely enough, many believed it. Because they had seen it with their own eyes—the body swap. That girl had collided with the CEO, and then, the CEO—or whoever was in his body—had laughed and run off, leaving the stunned girl behind, who immediately started claiming she was the real CEO.

And then they arrived. The strange people in black, who were now interrogating everyone one by one in one of the offices. Everyone was being called in, and those who had already been questioned did not return. Yet despite that, Mike had still ordered everyone remaining in this part of the building to keep working.

Her attention flicked to her reflection in the window—shiny blue cycling shorts clinging awkwardly to slender legs, a short gray crop top accentuating narrow shoulders and a slim waist. A foreign body. Too soft. Too... wrong.

Her head spun: the cloying scent of someone else's perfume, sticky and sickly sweet, clouded her thoughts. Long, silky hair brushed her neck, tickling her skin with every awkward movement. The tight clothes, the sticky fabric, the sensation of almost being exposed. He wanted to tear it all off. Panic surged in waves, hot and suffocating.

He—yes, he, even if the body said otherwise—tried to stay composed, sitting with legs spread wide, trying to assert dominance. But he could still feel the stares drilling into the back of his head, the hushed whispers behind him. Of course. The company's CEO. In a woman's body.

— Listen, girl, I don't know how you fooled everyone here, but it won't work on me, — a harsh, mocking male voice broke the tension.

Mike snapped his head up. Jack Rayner, the senior manager, stood nearby, leaning forward in a provocative stance. Jack had never liked Mike, but Mike never cared—as long as the man did his job and kept his mouth shut. Jack's lips twisted in a nasty smirk, his hand pointing at her like he'd just caught a criminal in the act.

— What? — His voice cracked, coming out high-pitched and ringing. Unfamiliar.

— Oh, now you're playing dumb too? — Rayner sneered. — Fine. But just so you know, I've already told Stevenson this prank has gone on long enough.

Mike opened his mouth to reply when another voice cut in:

— Claire Matthews?

Mike flinched slightly. Who now? Probably some junior staffer. He didn't even glance toward the voice at first, expecting someone to raise their hand. Nothing happened.

— Claire Matthews, come with me, — the voice was more insistent. Male, authoritative, tinged with impatience.

He finally looked up, meeting the gaze of a tall man in a strict dark suit standing by the door where people were being led for questioning about the incident. Dark sunglasses. A radio on his belt. Clearly one of them.

— Uh... you mean me? — Mike blinked at the agent, but again, his voice betrayed him—too high, too melodic, almost sing-song.

— Yes, Miss Matthews, — the agent's eyebrows furrowed, radiating mild irritation.

Mike felt his heart tighten, his palms going clammy. This had to be a mistake. He wasn't Claire. His name was Mike Rogers, dammit!

He stood up from the couch, feeling the ridiculous glossy fabric of the shorts stretch over unfamiliar hips. Everything felt wrong—the lightness of the body, the subtle sway of the chest with each movement, even the shoes felt too light on his feet.

Jack Rayner curled his lips into a grin, scoffing.

— Good luck, "Claire," — he practically hissed with venom.

Mike gritted his teeth but said nothing, following the agent.

— Listen, — he finally spoke as the agent turned a corner. — I don't know what's going on here, but I'm not Claire Matthews. My name is Mike Rogers. I'm the CEO of this company.

— We're aware, Mr. Rogers, — the agent didn't even glance back, continuing forward.

Mike froze in place, blinking.

— What? Then why this whole "Claire" thing?

The agent finally stopped, turning to face him. Or rather, turning to face the wide, startled brown eyes of the body Mike now inhabited.

— Because, Mr. Rogers, — the agent's voice was calm, almost tired, — you are Claire Matthews. Now.

— Cut the crap, — Mike let out a nervous laugh, stepping back, but the agent moved forward, blocking the way back to the open café. — This... this is ridiculous.

— Step inside, — the agent opened a door to a conference room, gesturing toward a chair.

— No, I'm... I'm not sitting down! — Mike shook his head, feeling the long strands of hair stick to his lips. He huffed, trying to blow them away, his cheeks flushing—not with embarrassment but with helpless rage.

The agent silently stepped aside, allowing him space.

— Stand if you want. But this conversation ends here.

Inside, two more agents were waiting—both in black. One held a large electronic tablet, the other a strange silver device resembling a marker.

Mike's eyes darted between them, trying to control the trembling in his fingers, which felt too thin, too fragile. The glossy material on his hips felt even tighter, hugging the unfamiliar body almost obscenely.

— Is... is this even legal? — His voice cracked again, too high, too feminine. He took a step back, heat rising to his face. — I demand an explanation!

The agent with the tablet silently scrolled through something, then turned the screen toward him.

The image was unmistakable—her. Long chestnut hair, soft facial features, a light smile, elegant makeup, and a dress with thin straps. Below the photo, the text read:

Claire Matthews, 24 years old. Waitress at the "Heat" nightclub. Victim of D-17 incident.

— So? What’s the point of all this? — Mike threw his hand up, growing more and more irritated.

— The point, — the agent spoke slowly, emphasizing each word, — is that you are now Claire Matthews. A nightclub waitress. Lives on Lakeview Street, apartment 3B. Worked two jobs to pay for—

— Enough! — Claire waved her hand, feeling how her long curls slid over her shoulders, tickling her skin. Furious, she tossed them back, trying to regain at least the illusion of control. — Fine, I get it! I get it! Who sent you? Competitors? Are you trying to push me out of my own company? Blackmail, huh? You want money? How much? Name your price! I'm rich—filthy rich—and I can make sure you and your families never have to work another day in your lives. Just stop this bullshit!

The agent slowly set the tablet aside, frowning. The room fell into tense silence. The one holding the strange device took a step forward, raising it slightly, but the other agent stopped him with a sharp motion of his hand.

— The money you’re referring to belongs to Mike Rogers, — the agent said coldly, glancing at the tablet again. — On your personal account, Miss Matthews, there is a balance of… 214 dollars and 57 cents. Plus outstanding debts totaling $5,760: $3,200 in unpaid college tuition, since you dropped out in your second year, $1,100 in medical bills after an ankle injury in 2022, and $1,460 in overdue rent for your Lakeview apartment.

Claire froze, feeling a tight knot forming inside her. It sounded like a death sentence. But it couldn't be true! She shook her head, the too-long, foreign hair brushing her face again.

— No… No, this is insane, — she backed up, bumping into the edge of the table. — Just give me back my body! — Claire's voice trembled, only fueling her growing rage.

— We can't, Miss Matthews, — the agent's voice remained flat, almost mechanical. — It's impossible.

— Stop calling me that! — Claire clutched her head, feeling the softness of the breasts under the crop top pressing forward. Damn it, even that was distracting. — If this is some kind of joke, you're taking it way too far! I’m Mike Rogers! I don't care what kind of circus you're running here, but I—

— Maybe we should try using this? — the second agent, silent until now, raised the strange silver device, resembling a metallic marker with a glowing strip down the middle.

— You know it doesn’t work on direct swaps, — the lead agent replied calmly, not taking his eyes off Claire.

She squinted at the shiny object, then let out a bitter laugh.

— Oh, really? Men in Black, huh? What’s next? You're gonna erase my memory so I forget I was ever… — she choked, her throat tightening painfully. — …myself.

The agent didn’t blink.

— Yes, exactly. However, — he nodded toward the device in his colleague's hand, — it doesn't work on those who’ve undergone a direct body swap. Like you.

Claire clenched her teeth, her mind still spinning from the unfamiliar sensations of the body she was trapped in—too light, too... soft. Even the subtle vibration in her voice betrayed that femininity, and she hated it.

— So what now? I’m just supposed to… live like this? As some waitress Claire? — she almost hissed, her fists clenching.

— Yes. All that's left is to sign some documents, — the agent replied, pulling a neatly stacked set of papers from a folder and spreading them out on the table. Government seals were stamped in every corner. It all looked painfully official.

Claire's gaze locked on the words. Fine print. Legal jargon. Titles like Acknowledgment of New Identity, Personal Protection Act for D-17 Incidents, Non-Disclosure Agreement.

— This... this feels like a nightmare... — she whispered, feeling sweat trickle down her back, making the thin gray top cling even more.

— Sign here, here… and here, — the agent continued, pointing at the blanks with all the indifference of someone explaining how to fill out a tax form. — Of course, this is all classified information, and you are fully aware of the consequences should you breach the terms. However, the formalities must be completed.

— And what if I refuse? — Claire ground out, her voice still sounding too sharp, too high.

The agent didn’t respond immediately. He took a step back, folding his hands behind his back, and spoke with cold detachment:

— I don’t believe you want to know what happens if you refuse, Miss Matthews. Either way, we’ll be erasing the memories of all witnesses involved and replacing them with fabrications. The body swap can only be reversed if the initiator willingly switches back—and in the exact reverse order. So, if he's already moved on from Mike Rogers… consider it a lost cause.

— You can't be serious... — she whispered through gritted teeth, her delicate fingers curling so tightly her knuckles turned white.

— Dead serious. And considering he's likely swapped again by now, restoring balance is impossible. You'll have to adapt. In time… — the agent gave a slight shrug, as if discussing something routine, — fragments of Claire’s original memories will surface. In flashes. Sensations, skills, knowledge. It's a side effect of the swap.

— W-what?! — Claire stumbled back, a sickening weight settling in her stomach.

— It won't happen quickly, — the agent continued with the same disturbing calm. — Weeks, maybe months. But eventually, her memory will fully merge with yours.

The room spun. His memories… her memories… She fought the urge to gag as the cloying sweetness of that damned perfume hit her nose again.

— So you're telling me I'm not just stuck in this body, — Mike's voice cracked as he spoke, — but I'll actually start thinking like her too?

— Not exactly, Miss Matthews, but you get the idea. Sign the papers.

Claire stood frozen, staring at the documents like a death sentence. Her slender fingers, now adorned with neatly manicured nails, trembled as she reached for the pen. Her heart pounded violently, but resistance felt pointless—these people weren’t bluffing. They were far more powerful than most could imagine. The searing humiliation choked her, burned behind her eyes.

She had been Mike Rogers just this morning. The CEO. The one in charge. But now... now she was something less. Someone less.

With a thin stroke of the pen, she signed the documents, feeling with each letter like she was not only giving up her past—but her very self.