Awakening in Red

The reflection in the mirror showed what seemed like pure madness. A man... or perhaps no longer a man... stared at himself, unable to comprehend how this was possible. He reached for his face—still his own. The familiar features, the sharp gaze. It was his face. Or more precisely, his head. But below the neck...

— "What the hell?" — he breathed, his voice trembling. Unexpectedly soft, high-pitched, thin, and resonant. It was definitely not his voice.

Fingers brushed against the collarbones—slender, delicate. Then lower—the tits. Small, but unmistakably feminine. He yanked his hand back as if burned. He spun around abruptly, feeling the fabric rustle softly against his skin, but there was none of the roughness he knew, no trace of his usual strength. These arms—thin, long, with elegant fingers and painted nails—moved with a disconcerting grace, as though they weren’t his.

His throat was dry, and his head buzzed. The last thing he remembered was walking home after a long day at work. The sounds of New York's streets had filled his ears as he already felt the warmth of his apartment, anticipating reheating yesterday's pizza. And then... darkness. Everything after that was gone. Now he stood here, in a strange bathroom with blue tiles.

His gaze fell on the counter near the sink. There lay a handbag. Red, like the dress. His trembling hand pulled it closer, the zippers yielding smoothly under his touch. Inside—a wallet, a phone, a few items he didn’t recognize. And a passport.

At first, he didn’t want to look. He just held the document, staring at it as though it were a bomb. But overcoming his fear, he opened it. He glanced at the photo—his face, but with painted lips and other elements of makeup. It looked both horrifying and disturbingly real. His face, gender: female, and the name... Magdalena Gorowska. Poland.

— "What the fuck?" — he whispered, gasping for air.

His hands trembled. How? Why Poland? Was he in Poland? No, no, no, this couldn’t be real! He quickly rummaged through the contents of the bag. A phone! His fingers shook as he unlocked it. The screen lit up, and the first thing he saw was the date: December 5, 2024.

— "This... —" he dropped the phone, and it hit the tiled floor with a loud clatter. For several seconds, he just stood there, mouth agape, unable to move.

2024. That was impossible. The last thing he remembered was 2021. Three years. Three. Fucking. Years. This had to be some kind of joke.

The phone, now lying cracked against the wall, stared back at him from the floor. He swallowed hard, feeling his breath hitch as the unfamiliar breasts rose and fell with a strange weight and faint sway. The light fabric of the dress brushed gently against his sensitive nipples. Then the door behind him creaked softly.

He flinched and turned, his movements unnervingly slow and graceful, as though his body obeyed a new set of rules. In the doorway stood a woman of about fifty. Her gray hair was pulled into a tight bun, and she held a bucket and mop in her hands. Her face registered confusion.

— "Is everything alright, miss?" — the cleaning lady asked, her voice cautious.

Magdalena stared at her in shock, trying to process what had just happened. The sounds... It wasn’t English. It was... Polish? He had never studied Polish. But every word rose naturally in his mind. He didn’t just understand it—he knew it was Polish. And why did he immediately know it was Polish?

— "I... I..." — His voice still sounded alien. He swallowed and took a step back, bumping his elbow against the sink. — "What is this place?" — he asked, not realizing he was speaking fluently in a language that had been entirely foreign to him.

The cleaning woman raised her eyebrows.

— "This is the bathroom in the shopping mall. Miss, are you sure you're alright? You look... confused." — The woman frowned slightly and glanced at the phone on the floor. — "Did you drop your phone?"

Michael froze, his thoughts racing wildly. Miss? Why had she called him that? He couldn’t answer right away. Instead, he slowly bent down, picked up the phone, and saw the spiderweb of cracks across the screen.

— "Yes... thank you," — he muttered. His voice sounded soft, polite. Too polite.

The cleaning lady nodded but went about her work.

— "You look like you just came from the madhouse."

Michael frowned. Something about her words stung, but he didn’t have time to respond. The woman turned away and began pouring water onto the floor. Michael stepped towards the exit, passport still in hand.

"Magdalena Gorowska. Poland. Born 1998."

He quickly did the math. He—no, she—was 26 years old. 26? That couldn’t be true! He had been 34. His memories of his life until that moment were crystal clear. His job—sales manager at a big company. Ordinary, boring, but stable. Family? Didn’t work out. A relationship that had ended a couple of years ago after a fight with a girlfriend who thought he was too focused on his career. That night—the one he could still remember—he had simply been walking home, planning to spend the evening with some leftover pizza and a TV series.

Michael cautiously stepped out of the bathroom into the echoing corridor of the shopping mall. The air buzzed with noise—voices, music from store displays, the jingle of coins in a currency exchange machine. Everything felt alien: unfamiliar signs, Polish words on advertisements, people who glanced at him briefly but said nothing. This wasn’t his home. And it was definitely not New York. He clutched the handbag tightly and took a deep breath, trying to collect his thoughts.

As he walked down the corridor, he felt the wide hips swaying with each step, seemingly drawing attention. The breasts beneath the thin dress bounced lightly—too noticeable, too unrestricted—and the gentle breeze under the hem of the dress irritatingly tickled his skin, creeping higher than he liked. The thong panties bit uncomfortably into all the wrong places, constantly reminding him that this body wasn’t his. The ballet flats were light, but they made him feel like he was walking too quietly, almost stealthily. Passersby stared, especially men, their gazes bold and shameless, which angered him even more. Every movement of this body betrayed a grace and fluidity he couldn’t control, as though it had a life of its own.

He spotted a bench near a store window and hurried to it, sinking down heavily. His fingers shook as he opened the handbag again. The passport was already familiar. The phone—cracked but functional. And then he saw it—a small envelope, neatly folded and tucked into a side pocket.

Michael pulled it out and unfolded the paper. The text was in Polish, but he read it as if he’d been born with the language:

 Name: Magdalena Gorowska

 Date of Birth: August 12, 1998

 Place of Birth: Warsaw, Poland

 Nationality: Polish

 Marital Status: Married

 Husband: Jakub Gorowski, born 1996, laborer, previously charged with hooliganism and petty theft.

 Education: Incomplete secondary (expelled from vocational college in 2016 for truancy and poor performance).

 Date of Disappearance: May 3, 2021

 Place of Disappearance: Warsaw, Praga-Północ district

 Circumstances: Went missing after visiting a nightclub, last seen under the influence of alcohol and drugs. Believed to have left with an unknown group of individuals.

 Status: Case closed on November 3, 2022, due to lack of new evidence.

 Notes:

 Had a long-standing addiction to amphetamines, with intermittent rehabilitation attempts that ended in relapses.

 Maintained unstable, conflict-prone relationships with her husband, Jakub Gorowski, involving frequent arguments and separations.

 Known in her neighborhood as a "troublesome individual" due to involvement in public brawls and numerous scandals.

Michael reread the note several times, disbelief etched on his face. His hands slowly reached up to his neck, almost instinctively. His fingers found something strange—a thin, barely noticeable scar encircling the base of his skull. He blinked, feeling a faint stab of panic. The scar was unnervingly precise, as if it had been made with surgical accuracy.

— "No..." — he whispered, licking his dry lips. The realization hit him like a freight train. His head—his head—had somehow been transplanted onto this foreign body. It was unthinkable, impossible. But nothing else made sense, and everything felt disturbingly real.

And then the shaking began. At first, it was barely noticeable—a faint tremor in his hands. Then a sudden cold swept through his entire body, and his teeth started to chatter uncontrollably.

— "What... what the hell?" — he gasped, hugging himself. The cold felt as though it came from within, as if someone had turned off the internal heating in his body. He clutched his shoulders, but they were so fragile, so weak. The light fabric of the red dress offered no warmth, only a reminder of his vulnerability.

His head started to spin. His heart pounded erratically, and his hands now shook so violently he could barely hold the envelope and passport. He desperately tried to take a deep breath, but his chest seemed to resist. His throat felt parched, as if someone had pressed "pause" on his ability to breathe normally.

And then the feeling came. He didn’t know what it was, but it was horrifying, enveloping, like a sticky fog. Something inside him demanded... something. It grew stronger with every passing second.

— "What is this? God, what’s happening to me?!" — he whispered, clutching his head. And then he remembered what the note had said: this wasn’t just fear or panic. This was a full-blown withdrawal. Something that demanded attention, that demanded a fix. It was her addiction, Magdalena’s. But now, it was his.