Questionnaire

I slip the keys out of my pocket with practiced numbness and, after the ceremonial shoulder-bump against our finicky door, stumble into the apartment I share with Daniel. The mid-afternoon sunlight cuts through the blinds, stripes of gold on the threadbare rug and the tombstone silhouettes of unopened Amazon boxes. Daniel’s not home. Typical.

My room is a time capsule for a young adult mediocrity: desk drowning in opened wrappers and three flavors of empty Red Bull, off-brand gaming chair that promises lumbar support but delivers only shame, laundry basket that’s more like a suggestion box for future regrets. I drop my bag and let gravity do the rest. The chair creaks but holds.

Something crinkles under my arm as I lean back. I dig it out—a "Complimentary" lifestyle magazine, courtesy of the food court. The thing’s so cheap, I can practically see food stains bleeding through the cover. I flip it open, skipping over clickbait horoscopes and glossy full-page ads for collagen drinks. Then, on page twelve, sandwiched between a quiz about which dog breed matches your personality and a recipe for ‘authentic’ carbonara, there it is:

GIRLFRIEND 2.0: Build Your Dream Girl!

I lean forward and read the fine print. The survey’s only eight questions. Each one more ridiculous than the last. I tell myself I’m doing this ironically, but the truth is, I’m bored, and my love life is as stagnant.

What ethnicity is your ideal girlfriend?

I’ve seen enough K-drama to know the answer. There’s a weird comfort in those formulaic stories, like if I watch enough pretty Koreans confess awkwardly over instant noodles, maybe my own existence will start to make narrative sense. I grab a pen and hover over the line. For a second, the tip just pulses there, blue and glistening: Korean.

No hesitation. The word looks foreign, exotic even, spelled in my sausage-fingered handwriting. I mutter the word out loud, testing the sound. “Ko-rean.” It comes out softer than I expect, a little breathy, like I’m trying to seduce my own ears. Weird.

There’s a tickle behind my ear, like a bug crawling, but when I brush at it, my hair—my short brown catches my fingers and then falls across my eyes. I blink. For a second, I swear I see the ends of long, glossy black hair, gleaming with some impossible sheen. I blink again, and it’s gone, just the same messy mop I always have. Must be the lighting.

I smirk at the mirror above my desk, but the angle’s all wrong, and I can’t see anything except the bottom half of my face. There’s a flash of movement in my peripheral vision: lips, full and a little pouty. I laugh. My own voice cracks in a weird, high register and then quickly normalizes. I cough, clear my throat, and ignore the little worm of discomfort that runs down my spine.

But the changes—if you can even call them that—don’t stop. As I stare at the magazine, my eyes start to itch. Like, actually itch. I rub them until I see white spots, and when I look up, everything is weirdly crisp and bright, but also… warmer? My vision keeps drifting to the side, and suddenly I notice my eyelashes are way too long. I lean closer to the mirror, and the shape of my eyes—they look wider, almost almond-shaped, with a definite tilt. Are my eyes brown now? I swear they were hazel this morning. Maybe the lighting. It’s always the lighting.

I reach up, intending to poke at my own cheek, and my hand stutters in mid-air. The skin on my arm looks smoother, paler, no trace of my usual summer-freckle blight. I check the back of my hand; the veins that usually pop blue beneath the surface are just… gone. Instead, my hand looks elegant. Almost dainty. If I didn’t know better, I’d say it belonged to someone who’s never played thumb-wrestle deathmatches with Daniel in the living room.

I shake my head, laughing at myself. I’ve always had a good imagination, but this is next-level. Maybe I’m finally going insane. Or maybe this is what happens when you skip lunch and run on caffeine and stress for three days straight. I look back at the page, and the next question is already staring me down, but for some reason, I can’t stop thinking about Korean girls. Not in a creepy way. Okay, maybe in a slightly creepy way. But mostly just: I imagine the ones from dramas, with those perfect glass-skin faces.

I open my mouth to tell the empty room how ridiculous this is, but the sound that comes out is… not my voice. Well, it’s still me, but different. Lighter, higher, and with this weird, smoky lilt at the end of each word. Like a K-pop idol in a soju ad. I say “Hello, hello,” just to hear it again, and I’m pretty sure I nail the accent. My heart actually skips a beat.

I run my hand along my jaw, expecting the familiar scratch of stubble, but it’s smooth. Not just that shaved, but waxed and buffed to a baby-seal finish. I scratch at my arm and realize there’s no hair there, either. It’s like I never hit puberty. Every follicle below the neckline has taken a personal day, and what remains feels hyper-sensitive. The sensation is oddly pleasant. The more I touch, the more I want to keep touching, like I’m discovering an entirely new body I never signed up for.

I peer down my shirt. No, nothing weird yet—still the same soft, slightly doughy pecs. But the collar of my tee sits differently, higher, as if my shoulders have shrugged inward. I make a mental note to blame the laundry shrinkage and go back to the survey.

I can’t ignore the changes in my head, though. For the first time ever, English feels… slow? Like I’m translating in real time. I read the next line out loud, and it comes out with the same sultry, foreign inflection as before. It’s not hard to imagine myself chatting in Korean. In fact, the more I think about it, the more natural it feels. Like the time I spent a summer binging nothing but K-dramas and started dreaming in Hangul subtitles.

I pick up the pen again. My hand looks even more feminine now, the nails longer and neatly shaped, with this faint sheen like I just got a budget manicure. But it feels so normal, like it’s always been this way. The next line on the survey blares in bold like it’s personally judging me:

How girly is your ideal girlfriend?

I can practically hear Daniel cackling somewhere, ghostly and smug. The “ideal girlfriend” trope never got me far in real life, but here, with no one to roll their eyes or call me a simp, I let the fantasy breathe a little. My type, if you can even call it that, always tilted toward the soft, sensitive, kind-of-princess vibe. Not just looks—though the visuals never hurt—but the whole package: delicate, maybe even a little fragile, the kind of girl who wore oversized sweaters.

“Quite girly and soft,” I say out loud, and the words hang in the air, syrupy and sweet. I write it down, and as I do, a weird pressure pulses through my right hand. At first, it’s nothing, just the tingling numbness from too much Red Bull and too little stretching. Then, a staccato series of pops and crunches, so quick and subtle I think I’m hallucinating it, echo in my knuckles. I look down: my hand is shrinking. The bones rearrange with silent efficiency. My fingers grow thinner, impossibly elegant, each knuckle smoothing out. The nails stretch, lengthening and rounding into perfect almond shapes, like someone airbrushed away all the bitten edges and hangnails and replaced them with an expensive salon job.

I flex. The hand that emerges from my sleeve doesn’t belong to any man I’ve ever been, but it feels right, somehow, like maybe this was what my hand was always supposed to be. It moves with a dancer’s grace, every movement tight and efficient and, dare I say it, sexy.

I can’t help it—I do a little pirouette with the pen, spinning it between my fingers like I’m showing off for a camera. The skin on my arm looks almost translucent, every hair gone, the shape of my wrist slim and delicate. There’s not a hint of muscle or bloat—just clean, feminine lines that melt into the pale blue veins barely visible beneath the surface. My left arm follows suit. A pinch, a pull, and my biceps fizzle out, replaced by a gentle inward curve. The watch I’ve had since high school slides up and over my new wrist, suddenly loose, threatening to drop onto the desk if I don’t catch it. I do, effortlessly, and refasten the strap on the smallest possible setting. It looks so dainty there, like I borrowed it from a dollhouse.

I keep writing, letting the survey guide the transformation. With every letter, my shoulders cave inward. I feel it in my collarbones first: they rise up, becoming sharper, more defined. The boulder-like mass of my upper back shrinks, vertebra by vertebra, and with it, the constant ache I never noticed until it vanished. A satisfying stretch pulls my shoulders together, collarbones splaying out in a gentle V beneath my shirt.

I glance at myself in the mirror. My neck is swan-like now, the tendons thin and ropy instead of blocky and thick. My Adam’s apple has all but disappeared; if I poke it, I can barely feel anything but smooth skin. There’s a ghost of perfume in the air, light and floral, but I know it’s just my brain trying to process the changes. I sniff my shirt. Still just me: sweat, detergent, and the lingering tang of old ramen.

My chest compresses with a tight little squeeze, the ribs shrinking in, diaphragm sucking upward until my entire upper body feels impossibly compact. My lungs fill with air, and for the first time ever, I realize how easy it is to just breathe. No more shallow, anxious gulps. Every inhale is smooth, every exhale easy. I relax into the gaming chair, and it fits me better now, like it’s adjusted for my new frame. The lumbar support is finally in the right place. As I arch my back, a series of cracks ripple up my spine, each one making me a little shorter, a little curvier. My whole posture shifts. Instead of slouching, I’m sitting with my back arched, hips tilted forward, chest and ass popped out in a way that would look ridiculous on my old body but now feels completely natural.

There’s a weird, pleasant sensation in my feet, like the slow burn after standing too long at a concert. I look down and watch as my feet crunch inward, toes curling. The shoes I kicked off earlier would never fit now; my feet are small, narrow, almost childlike, with a perfect arch and long, graceful toes. My nails there match my fingers, perfectly manicured, not a chip or uneven edge in sight.

I wiggle them, delighted. It’s not even weird. I actually enjoy the feeling, the new mobility and dexterity. My legs, even through my sweats, feel lighter, less hairy, softer. There’s no resistance as I pull my knees up to my chest, hugging them close. The old me would have creaked or grunted. Now, it’s as easy as stretching after a nap.

I tap the pen against my teeth, marveling at how easy it is to twirl it between these new fingers. It’s addictive, the way the world responds to my movements—every gesture seems to have more purpose, more elegance. I glance back at the magazine. The survey’s next question is already on deck, but before I get there, I spend a long moment just rolling the pen between my hands, staring at the transformation. It’s not just that I look different. It’s that, somehow, the change makes everything easier. Lighter. Like all my awkwardness and insecurity was hiding in my bones and it finally just… let go.

I spin around in my chair, a full circle. The old fear of breaking it or tipping over is gone. I’m weightless, a feather. Even the sound of the wheels on the hardwood floor is higher pitched, like a soundtrack for a different person.

I feel the urge to text Daniel, to prove this isn’t all in my head, but the idea of typing with these perfect nails and not showing them off is a crime. Instead, I snap another selfie, and this time, I really look. I don’t recognize the girl staring back at me.

Her face is halfway between what I remember and something from a drama: soft jawline, wide eyes with dark lashes, lips naturally pink and slightly parted in a bemused half-smile. My shirt looks oversized now, sliding off one shoulder and exposing the delicate slope of my neck. I look… pretty? Not in a forced, Instagram-filter way. Just: natural. Like this is who I’ve always been.

There’s a strange comfort in it, a warmth that radiates outward from my chest. It feels so right that for a second, I forget why I ever wanted to be anything else. I set the phone down, twirl the pen between my elegant fingers, and stare at the next question. If this is how easy it is to change everything, I wonder, what else can I fix?

How curvy is her lower body?

They might as well have called it the “Ass & Hips Scale.” I stifle a laugh, but it comes out as a weird giggle—high, airy, and almost cartoonish. There’s no one around to judge me, so I let the perverted thoughts run wild for once. I know what I like, and what I like is curves. The more, the better. Not for the memes, but because there’s something hypnotic about a girl who walks like she’s leading with her hips. Maybe I’m overthinking it, but I’ve spent enough time alone to know my type.

I jot down “Very curvy,” underlining it twice for good measure. My handwriting is even cuter now—bubbly, rounded, a far cry from the drunken spider scrawl I used to produce. As soon as the pen hits the paper, something tectonic happens.

A dull ache starts in my lower back, radiating out and down through my pelvis. I shift in the chair, but instead of relief, the discomfort turns into a hot, electric tingle. My spine creaks like it’s decompressing after years in traction, and then the real fireworks start. My hip bones, which I’ve never paid attention to, suddenly crack outward. It’s a low, resonant sound, like knuckles popping but on a much grander scale. The sensation isn’t painful. It’s more like having a knot worked out by an invisible masseuse, and I shudder as my entire waist expands, arching dramatically.

I press my hands to my hips and almost lose it. They’re huge, like hourglass proportions. I could balance a drink on them. My hands move over the bone, feeling out the new curves, and there’s an obscene pleasure in the way they arc outward. The waistband of my sweats protests, digging into the fresh, soft flesh above my pelvis. I have to loosen the drawstring to keep circulation in my lower half.

The fat migrates next. It flows over my hips in slow, undulating waves, packing on in all the right places. I can’t stop myself from rubbing them, savoring the marshmallow give beneath the skin. The curve is so extreme, my hips actually hang past the chair on either side. I try to scoot forward and nearly slide off, the friction between my new ass and the cheap synthetic fabric threatening to eject me onto the floor.

Speaking of ass: a different kind of heat blooms there, deep and urgent. My butt starts to swell, inch by inch, until I’m perched atop a bubble butt. It’s ridiculous, but also incredible. Every time I flex, the two globes bounce a little, and the sensation of them settling into the chair is oddly addictive. I poke at it, expecting the usual flab, but it’s firmer, denser, like I've been doing squats my entire life. I shift my weight back and forth, just to feel the cushion. Each movement sends a micro-pleasure up my spine, and I have to bite my lip to keep from moaning. There’s a weird pride in it, like all those years of sitting on my flat, uninspired ass were just a warmup for this moment.

But the changes aren’t done. My thighs begin to thicken, gaining mass by the second. At first, it’s subtle: a little more give, a gentle pressure when my knees touch. But then the fat pours on, sculpting my legs into plush, shapely pillars. Every inch of my thighs is hyper-sensitive, picking up the texture of my sweatpants and the cool air of the room. They ripple, and I watch in awe as they squeeze together, closing any gap that ever existed.

My junk—still there, awkward and out of place—gets trapped between the swelling masses of my new thighs. The sensation is overwhelming. I squirm, trying to adjust, but the friction just makes it worse. Every twitch rubs my balls against the soft, silken skin of my inner thighs, and I’m instantly, embarrassingly hard.

I let out a shaky laugh. “Jesus, I’m so turned on,” I whisper, but the voice is even more feminine now, a half-moan lurking behind every syllable. I can’t help it, I clench my thighs together, just to see what happens. The pressure is exquisite. My cock throbs against the pillowy flesh, and a wave of heat rolls through my pelvis. For the first time since this whole thing started, I’m not just aroused; I’m desperate. The feeling is so intense, so all-consuming, that I almost forget to be freaked out by the fact that I’ve basically become a walking wet dream.

I run my hands up and down my new legs, marveling at the shape and heft. The skin is flawless, not a scar or ingrown hair in sight. It’s like someone photoshopped my entire lower half and then printed it out in real life. I reach behind and grab my ass with both hands. It’s massive, soft but springy, and I can’t resist giving it a little slap. The sound echoes off the walls, and I giggle again, this time unable to stop.

I squeeze my legs tighter, feeling the heat and the wetness growing between them. My balls are sandwiched so perfectly, it’s like they’ve found their true calling. Every clench, every grind, sends little sparks up my spine. I close my eyes and imagine walking down the street with this body, the way heads would turn, the way every movement would announce itself. It’s intoxicating.

When I finally look down at the magazine again, the pen is still spinning between my delicate fingers, and the next question is waiting for me. I’m so turned on I can barely think, but I know exactly what I’m going to write. If this keeps up, I’m not sure I’ll survive the next question.

How big are her breasts?

I snort, instantly picturing Daniel’s face if he ever found this questionnare of my private thoughts. I don’t even have to think about it—my preferences have always been embarrassingly basic. I mean, I appreciate all body types, but if I’m being honest with myself? I’m a sucker for tits. The bigger, the better.

My cock is still iron-hard and pinned between my new thunder thighs, the sensation making every thought sticky and slow. I write “D-cups,” all neat and bubbly, and the pen almost slips from my fingers as my chest erupts in a fireworks display of tingles.

At first, it’s just the nipples. They prickle and swell, turning stiff and rubbery beneath my shirt. I can feel them dragging across the thin cotton with every breath, sending micro-shivers straight to my brain. The areoles widen and darken, blooming like wet paint on a paper towel. The sensation is so raw, I have to hug myself just to keep from moaning out loud.

The fat rushes in next. I can actually feel it migrating beneath the skin, like a slow, unstoppable tide. It starts small: a gentle swell under each pec, pushing them outward until the shirt tents away from my body. At first, it’s nothing dramatic—just enough to be noticeable if you’re looking for it, which I obviously am. But it doesn’t stop there. Every heartbeat sends another wave of mass into my chest, and I swear I can hear the fabric stretching to keep up. Within minutes, I’ve outgrown the “training bra” stage. Two solid handfuls of breast jut from my chest, perky and impossibly sensitive. The weight is already changing how I sit, pulling my shoulders back and arching my spine in a way that feels both slutty and natural.

I run my hands over them, cupping the new flesh and squeezing experimentally. The skin is velvet-smooth, the nipples diamond-hard under my touch. I can’t help but play with them, rolling the tips between my fingers, watching them swell even further. The sensation is electric—way more intense than anything I ever felt as a guy. As I keep writing, the growth continues. A-cup turns to B, then C, then D, each jump punctuated by a little spasm of pleasure that radiates out from my chest and down my body. The breasts balloon outward, heavy and round, drooping just enough to create a cavernous cleavage. When I lean forward, the boobs actually hit the desk first, sending a little shockwave up my torso.

My shirt is a lost cause. The fabric is stretched to transparency, the outline of my areoles clearly visible through the thinning cotton. It’s so obscene, I can’t stop staring. I poke at my own cleavage, jiggling the breasts just to watch them bounce. The feeling is addictive—every movement sends ripples of sensation through my entire upper body. My nipples are so sensitive, I shiver every time they brush against the fabric.

I shift in my chair, and the new center of gravity nearly topples me. My back arches even more, forced by the counterweight of my chest. It feels weirdly empowering, like I’ve unlocked a secret level of femininity. I glance at my reflection and almost gasp. The face is all K-drama fantasy, but now it’s topped with two perfect spheres of breast flesh, soft and inviting. I look hot. Not just “passable” or “cute,” but genuinely, devastatingly attractive. A flush of pride burns in my cheeks. For the first time ever, I understand why girls post thirst traps. I’d do the same if I looked like this.

Flashes of memory—none of them my own—blink through my head. Guys at a club ogling my chest, a barista’s hands shaking as he takes my order, Daniel blushing and stammering when I walk into the room in a low-cut tank. Each one sends a fresh thrill through my body. I squeeze my boobs together, reveling in the softness and weight. The feeling is so good, I could almost forget this isn’t how I started the day. I bounce them experimentally, then shoot another selfie, holding the phone high to capture the canyon of cleavage. It looks incredible, and I feel a rush of something like… satisfaction? Satisfaction and raw, uncut horniness. I set the phone down, breathless, and realize the next question is already burning a hole through the page. I’m not sure I can handle what comes next, but for once in my life, I actually want more.

How tight is her pussy?

I nearly snort coffee through my nose. The survey’s not even pretending to be subtle anymore. A few hours ago, I’d have been embarrassed to even read that word out loud, but now my body hums with anticipation. Maybe it’s the hormones, or maybe I’ve always been this much of a degenerate, but I’m already imagining the answer before I put pen to paper.

My cock is still rock-hard, trapped and throbbing between my new thighs. I run my palm over the slick, velvet skin, and the sensation is so raw it almost hurts. I think about what I’d want, if this were really my “ideal” girl: tight, wet, insatiable. But the image doesn’t stop at fantasy. In my head, I’m not just fucking this girl - I am her, moaning and writhing as someone pounds into me. The thought is hot enough to make my toes curl. I bite my new, plump bottom lip and write, “Tight and constantly wet.”

The effect is immediate. My cock twitches, leaking a fat bead of pre-cum onto my inner thigh. I shudder, squeezing my legs together, and the pressure sends another wave of pleasure through my body. My hand moves automatically, stroking up and down my shaft, and the touch is so intense, I almost black out. Within seconds, I’m right at the edge. My balls tighten, drawing up hard against my body, and my dick jerks violently between my fingers. The orgasm rocks my body like a bomb, bigger than anything I ever felt as a guy. I gasp, the sound high and desperate, and a geyser of cum erupts from my tip, splattering across my thighs, belly, and the bedroom floor. It just keeps coming, rope after rope, until I’m lightheaded from the loss.

But as the last pulse fades, something inside my groin clicks and then turns inside out. There’s a slurping, sucking sensation as my balls yank themselves up into my pelvis. They disappear, melting and reforming somewhere deep inside. The empty sack shrivels, then splits, softening into two fleshy lips that kiss shut around the base of my shaft.

My cock, already half-soft from the orgasm, starts to shrink. It draws inward, inch by inch, the head flattening and folding until all that’s left is a sensitive nub just above my new, perfectly sealed slit. The skin around it is bright pink, almost obscene, and a fresh wave of slick, transparent fluid oozes out, soaking my fingers.

I touch the nub—my new clit—and almost scream. The pleasure is unbelievable, a hot flash that torches every nerve ending. I rub it, helpless, and my hips buck off the chair. I can feel everything: the silky smoothness of my pussy lips, the tight, hungry pull of the canal inside, the throbbing pulse of my clit as it swells beneath my touch.

I slide two fingers inside, and the sensation is so new, so perfect, I nearly pass out. The walls are tight and rippling, squeezing down around my digits like a living thing. I can feel them twitch and contract, desperate for something to fill them. I pump my hand in and out, faster and faster, until the world starts to blur at the edges. The orgasm hits with no warning. I throw my head back and cry out, the sound unfamiliar and beautiful. My pussy spasms, clenching hard around my fingers, and a hot gush of liquid squirts out, drenching my thighs and the seat of the chair. It smells faintly sweet, like fresh bread and sweat and sex. I keep rubbing, chasing the high, and each wave is stronger than the last. After what feels like hours, I collapse against the desk, fingers still twitching inside myself. My hair is plastered to my forehead, my skin glistening with sweat and arousal. I’m so far gone, I can barely remember my own name.

But even through the haze, I feel it: something shifting in my head, like a program running in the background. Old memories fuzz at the edges, replaced by flashes of new ones—snatches of a language I shouldn’t know, the taste of strange foods on my tongue, the memory of a first kiss that never happened but feels more real than anything in my old life. It’s like I’m being overwritten, line by line, but I’m too horny to care.

I drag myself upright, my hand still between my legs, and try to focus on the next question. The letters are swimming on the page, but I can just make out the words. I grin, wiping the sweat from my brow. Whatever happens next, I’m all in. I clench my new pussy, savoring the way it throbs and leaks with every heartbeat. For the first time ever, I’m excited to see what comes next.

I blink away the last fading pulses of orgasm and stare at the next line on the survey, but I can’t focus. Something’s missing. I thumb back to the top of the page, and it hits me—I never filled in the name. I squint at the blank line, a phantom itch nagging at the back of my skull.

Without thinking, I write “Min-Soo Kim.”

As soon as I do, a weird déjà vu flickers through my brain. The name looks both right and wrong, like a password you haven’t used in years but still kind of remember. I try to cross it out and put down my real name, but my hand stutters in midair. I draw a few shaky letters—Ja? Jae?—before it all slips away. It’s like the memory of my old life is oil on water, separating from everything else. Fuck it. “Min-Soo Kim” stays. I move on, shaking off the chill crawling up my neck.

What job does she do?

The words dance in front of my eyes, slippery and insistent. For a second, I can’t even remember what I do. I know I used to be a writer, or a marketer, or something equally forgettable. But now the images that come to mind are all kdrama heroines: fierce, rich, and so hyper-competent it makes my teeth ache. I see myself—no, her—storming into boardrooms in pencil skirts, laptop in one hand and iced coffee in the other.

I grin, not even bothering to play it cool. “A successful and rich entrepreneur,” I write, and the instant the words hit the paper, a tidal wave of memories crashes into me. I’m in college, top of my class, hacking together code and running side hustles out of a cramped dorm room. I’m pitching my first startup to a room of stone-faced VCs, holding their attention with nothing but stubbornness and a killer PowerPoint. I’m running marathons, blowing off steam with rooftop parties, fielding calls from reporters who want to know how I built an empire before I turned thirty.

Every memory feels both fresh and ancient, like someone compressed a whole lifetime into a single zip file and dumped it in my head. I shiver, hands trembling, and the room around me blurs for a moment. When the world snaps back into focus, the shitty apartment is gone. I’m sitting at a glass desk in a penthouse, sunlight streaming through floor-to-ceiling windows. The chair is leather, the air smells like expensive candles, and the walls are lined with books I’ve actually read.

The laptop in front of me pings with notifications—emails, calendar invites, Slack messages all in perfect, idiomatic Korean. I read them effortlessly, only realizing halfway through that I’ve never studied the language in my life. I look down at myself. The tank top is gone, replaced with a silk blouse and a tight black skirt that hugs my hips like a second skin. My hands move on their own, tapping at the keys with long, perfect nails.

None of this should make sense, but it does. I can feel the new memories settling in, smoothing over the old ones like a fresh coat of paint. I lean back in the chair, marveling at the view. For a split second, I remember Daniel, my old roommate, but he’s blurry, like a secondary character on a show I stopped watching. Instead, I remember business trips to Singapore, gala events in Seoul, late nights spent coding with my team and laughing over soju. It’s not just my body that’s different. My brain is changing, too. I should be terrified, but I’m not. I feel powerful, alive. I look at the next question and smile. Whatever’s happening, I’m ready for it. The next question stares back at me, but the words blur and twitch on the page:

What’s her personality?

I squint, trying to force the letters to make sense, but my brain refuses. It’s like trying to read a foreign language while half-drunk. A few hours ago, I would have breezed through this without thinking. Now, English feels clunky and imprecise, like a bad subtitle track.

I fumble for my phone and open the camera, snapping a photo of the question. My new hands are so small and nimble, I nearly drop the phone twice. The translation app does its magic, and the text reappears in sharp, comforting Korean (그녀의 성격은 어떻습니까? “What’s her personality?”).

I breathe easier. This is my language now. My mother tongue. I start to write, but the question seems pointless. Why describe an ideal when I already know the answer? I’m not imagining some fantasy girl anymore—I’m just describing myself.

My head tingles, the sensation prickling from scalp to spine. I close my eyes, and flashes of memory flicker behind my eyelids. I see myself arguing with a group of investors, laughing at their timid questions before shutting them down with a single, devastating fact. I see myself in a club, hips swaying, shot glass pressed to my lips as I smirk at the bartender and make him stutter. I see myself fucking, riding a man so hard the bedframe cracks, my voice hoarse with laughter and dirty words.

Smart. Sexy. Confident. Slutty. I write the words in perfect Korean, my penmanship as sharp and elegant as the signature on a million-dollar contract. As soon as I do, the memories solidify. I remember cheating on exams and never getting caught. I remember seducing men and women with a glance, knowing exactly what to say to make them weak. I remember every time I took a risk and won, every time I gambled and came out richer, sexier, more unstoppable than before.

I love it. I love her. I love me. I glance at my reflection in the black glass of the laptop screen. The face that looks back is flawless, a weapon honed to perfection. I toss my hair over one shoulder and pout, just to see how it feels. It’s intoxicating.I look back at the page, and the final question is already waiting for me. I smile—a slow, wicked, perfect smile.

How is her love life?

I smirk, glancing down at my new body, the answer already obvious. I pick up the pen—still warm from where I’d squeezed it between my fingers—and write in careful, pretty Korean: “사랑이 넘치고 섹스가 끊이지 않는다 (Loving and full of sex).”

As soon as the ink dries, something in my head detonates. Memories, hot and bright, roll through me in a wave. Daniel isn’t a roommate or an acquaintance or even a coworker. He’s my husband. The love of my life. My soulmate. I remember meeting him at a conference in Seoul, sparks flying the moment we locked eyes. I remember flirting in the hotel bar, our knees touching under the table, our hands finding each other in the cab ride back to my apartment.

Our first kiss is burned into my brain: the taste of his tongue, the way he grabbed my ass like he couldn’t help himself. I remember the way he fucked me that night—nervous at first, then frantic, like he’d been waiting his whole life for this. I remember waking up next to him, hair tangled, skin sticky with sweat and sex, and thinking, Yes. This is it.

But that’s not all. I remember our wedding—a blur of designer dresses, champagne toasts, and whispered promises in the dark. I remember fucking in every room of our penthouse, sometimes twice in a single morning. I remember going down on him under the conference table during a boring Zoom call, his muffled groans my only reward. I’m not just in love. I’m obsessed. The weight of it is intoxicating. My pussy clenches, instantly wet, as I think about what I want to do to him next.

I call out—“자기야! (Honey!)”—and the voice that comes out is pure lust, smooth and syrupy. No answer. I pout, then finish the survey with a flourish and strut into the living room, hips swaying.

Daniel’s in the kitchen, shirtless and barefoot, making coffee. He looks up, and for a moment, the old Jake memories surface: this is my best friend, the guy I watched anime with, the dude who once drank dirty water for a bet. But that person is gone. Now, he’s just… hot. Hot and mine.

I saunter up behind him, running my hands over his bare back. He shivers and turns, eyes going wide at the sight of me—full makeup, hair cascading over my bare shoulders, tits on display in a lace bralette that probably cost more than our old rent.

“Holy shit,” he says, but it comes out in perfect Korean: “민수야, 너 진짜 미쳤어? (Min-Soo, are you really crazy?)” I purr and press my body against his, feeling my nipples graze his skin. He stiffens everywhere and I giggle, loving the power I have over him.

We don’t even make it to the bedroom. I push him onto the kitchen table, straddle him, and kiss him hard, tongue probing until he groans into my mouth. His hands grab my ass, squeezing like he’ll never let go. I grind against him, feeling the slick heat of my pussy soak through my panties.

He lifts me onto the table, spreading my thighs with rough, hungry hands. I rip off his boxers, not caring when the coffee spills and burns my leg. I want him. Now. He lines himself up and plunges in, and the sensation is electric—so intense I scream. My pussy clamps down, milking him, and he fucks me like an animal, every thrust sending me closer to the edge.

I claw at his shoulders, leaving red marks. I beg him not to stop, not even when I come—hard, wet, and messy, squirting all over his cock and the tabletop. He keeps going, driving into me with desperate, frantic energy, until he finally lets go and fills me up. I collapse against him, both of us shaking, breathless. He buries his face in my neck, murmuring sweet nothings in Korean, and I realize—this is my life now. Rich. Gorgeous. Fucked silly by a man who adores me. It's better than the other life I had.

As we lay there, tangled and sticky, I glance at the finished survey on the counter. Eight questions, one perfect new life. I smile, knowing I’ll never fill out another quiz again.