An Incident in the Parking Lot

— What the hell is going on?! — squeaked John, leaning sideways against the cold concrete wall of the parking garage, feeling as if everything around him was spinning and pressing down on him. His voice was high-pitched, almost shrill, and the sound grated on his ears. It felt as though the world had flipped upside down — literally. Just moments ago, he had been confidently walking toward his Mercedes, his mind occupied with thoughts of closing a major deal, when he suddenly felt his mouth fill with something warm and alive, moving against the inside of his cheeks.

His ass was being squeezed tightly and he was pressed against someone's broad chest. Panic immediately overwhelmed him.

With a desperate burst of strength, John tore himself free from the grip. Without sparing a glance at the burly man towering before him, he stumbled backward, slamming into a concrete wall. His heart pounded like a trapped animal's, and his entire body shook as if it might collapse under the weight of sheer confusion.

— Hey, what’s wrong with you?! — snapped Brad, stepping toward him. — Hannah, is this some kind of joke? — Brad’s narrowed eyes glinted with suspicion, his broad shoulders rising threateningly, as if he were gearing up for a confrontation that would demand answers, not excuses.

John grabbed his head in horror. Long strands of chestnut-brown hair slipped through his trembling fingers. This had to be a dream. No, a nightmare. His hands instinctively moved to his chest, where he now felt something heavy and utterly alien.

— This... this can’t be happening… — he whispered, his shaky voice betraying the mounting panic within him. The high pitch of it startled even him, making him recoil.

Brad stepped closer, his heavy boots thudding ominously against the empty parking floor.

— Hannah, cut the crap, — his voice dropped to a dangerous growl, and a flicker of suspicion lit his eyes. — What kind of game are you playing here?

John recoiled, his back pressing into the wall as though the concrete could shield him. He raised a trembling hand but froze as his eyes caught sight of his own nails—long, polished, and painted a pale pink.

— No, no, no! This isn’t me! — he shook his head frantically, the motion making him appear even more unhinged to Brad. John didn’t yet realize he had woken up in the body of Brad’s wife, who worked here as a cleaner.

Then, as if struck by lightning, John’s eyes locked onto something horrifyingly familiar. His own body—the one he’d lived in his entire life—was casually sliding into his Mercedes. The posture, the movements, all exuded a practiced confidence. The person in his body glanced briefly into the rearview mirror before starting the engine without hesitation.

— What the...?! —John gasped, tumbling towards his former self. His new body’s unfamiliar weight shifted awkwardly, the sudden bounce of his chest throwing him off balance and he could hardly stay on his feet because of the high heels. His hands instinctively clutched at the unfamiliar softness, feeling warmth and weight that had once been so foreign to him.

— What the hell are you mumbling about? — barked Brad, grabbing John’s shoulder in one swift, forceful motion. — Hannah, stay put!

John froze, tearing his gaze away from the disappearing Mercedes. His old body, calm and composed, was now driving toward the exit with chilling ease. The car glided smoothly forward as Brad’s hands dug into his shoulders, holding him in place as though restraining him from a reckless dash.

— Where do you think you’re going? — Brad leaned in closer, his hot breath brushing against John’s neck.

— That’s… that’s me! He’s stealing my body and car! — John stammered, twisting to break free, but his new voice came out so pitifully weak and desperate that even he struggled to believe himself.

— Are you serious right now? Hannah, calm the hell down! What kind of performance is this?! — Brad shook him firmly, forcing him to meet his piercing gaze.

— Let go of me, you idiot! — John yelled, breaking free from Brad’s grip. His new body seemed to have a mind of its own: delicate hands, trembling but determined, pushed against Brad’s broad chest. His unsteady legs, perched precariously on unfamiliar heels, wobbled as though deliberately betraying him.

Brad froze. His expression shifted from anger to stunned disbelief. He took a step back, his jaw slackening as though he couldn’t trust his ears.

— What did you just call me? — he hissed, his voice dropping so low it sent a chill through the air. — Did you just call me an idiot?

Brad’s eyes widened as his brows shot up, his face a mix of shock and fury. He stared at John—Hannah, as far as he knew—like she’d just grown a second head. His wife, small, fragile, and endlessly submissive, had never dared to raise her voice at him, let alone hurl insults.

— Say that again! — he bellowed, his voice echoing through the empty parking lot.

John flinched, his new body instinctively shrinking back. But his instincts as a businessman kicked in: never show weakness. He steadied his breath and lifted his chin, though the sensation of long hair cascading over his shoulders made his skin crawl.

— I’ll say it a hundred times if I want to! — John shouted, more out of desperation than defiance. He had no time for this nonsense—he needed to get his body back.

— Hannah! Hey, Hannah! — a woman’s voice called from the elevator entrance. A slim blonde in a cleaner’s uniform was approaching, swinging a white bucket filled with cleaning supplies.

John turned toward the sound, his mind swimming and his new muscles trembling under the weight of panic. The blonde recognized him—or rather, Hannah.

— What are you doing here? Laura’s already mad at you! We still have two floors left to clean! — she scolded, casting an annoyed glance at Brad. — Is he bothering you again? We’re drowning in work, Brad. Let her go.

Brad shifted his gaze toward the blonde, his predator-like stare lingering briefly before he finally loosened his grip. John wasted no time stepping away, pressing himself back against the cold wall.

— Is everyone screwing with me today or what? — Brad muttered through clenched teeth, giving John one last menacing look before storming off, rubbing his hands against his jeans.

John wanted to shout after him, to demand answers or his body back, but all that came out was a feeble rasp. He stood frozen, watching Brad disappear around the corner, only relaxing when the man was completely out of sight.

— What’s wrong with you, Hannah? — the blonde asked, grabbing John’s arm to snap him out of his daze. — Laura’s going to kill you if we don’t finish before lunch.

— Laura? — John repeated dumbly, staring at her as if she’d just started speaking in tongues.

— Are you seriously out of it? Yeah, Laura. Our boss. Are you okay? — The blonde frowned, stepping back to give him a once-over. — You look like you’ve been hit by a truck.

Swallowing hard, John tried to gather his thoughts. He had no idea who Laura was, nor could he make sense of this woman’s rapid-fire complaints about unfinished cleaning and tight deadlines. One thing was clear: he needed information—fast.

Stumbling awkwardly after the blonde, John struggled to keep his balance as his heels slid on the smooth concrete floor. He clung to the wall for support, listening to her ramble without fully processing her words.

— Laura’s pissed. You’re already on thin ice, Hannah! — the blonde went on, shooting him a sidelong glance. — She found another complaint about a dirty hallway yesterday, and now you’re late again. And Brad—ugh, how many times have I told you to dump him? All he does is stress you out.

— Brad? We… we’re together? — John stammered, nearly choking on the revelation.

— Together? Listen to yourself! — The blonde rolled her eyes. — He’s only with you because he has nowhere else to go. You feed him, put up with his drama, and he just lies and makes promises. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s still fooling around with that cashier from the supermarket!

John froze, trying to process this avalanche of information. Brad—this aggressive brute who had just manhandled him—was his… her partner? And she was Hannah, a cleaner with a tyrannical boss, always late and drowning in complaints?

The blonde sighed dramatically. — Honestly, I don’t know how you put up with all this. If I were you, I’d have left this dump ages ago. But no, you’ve got to feel sorry for everyone except yourself.

They reached a shabby room filled with buckets, mops, and the acrid smell of cheap cleaning solution. The sight made John’s stomach turn. He grabbed the edge of a table to steady himself.

— Hannah, what’s wrong with you? — the blonde asked, alarmed. — Go wash your face or something. You look awful. But don’t take too long, okay? If Laura comes down and catches you slacking, it’ll get ugly.

John nodded mechanically and shuffled toward a small sink in the corner. The reflection staring back at him from the grimy mirror nearly made him scream. It was the face of a tired woman with dark circles under her eyes.

"This can’t be real. I need to figure out how to get my body back," he thought, clutching the edge of the sink. But the horrifying truth remained: old and very experienced body thief had stolen his body, and this person weren’t planning to give it back. Meanwhile, he was stuck in the life of Hannah—a woman burdened by debts, an overbearing boss, and a toxic relationship.