Now you’re on the porch of her upscale suburban house. The sun has just set. Your friend elbows you as the door opens, and there she is: Jennifer, in a tight dress, lip gloss glinting.

“My parents aren’t here,” she says with a smirk. “So be happy. You can do whatever the fuck you want, be loud or some shit.”

Barefoot and confident, she leads you inside. The house smells of vanilla candles and floral perfume. You follow her upstairs to her bedroom—stylish, feminine, a little messy. Notebooks and pens come out, and you settle on the floor.

Then Jennifer reaches into a drawer and pulls out a small prescription bottle.

“Hold on,” she says, popping a pill and taking a sip of water.

Her body freezes.

“What the—?” she mutters. A faint hissing escapes from her back. She stumbles, breath catching, hands clawing the air. Her knees buckle, and she falls.

Thump.

A jagged tear splits her from neck to spine. Inside, there’s nothing. No organs, no bones, no blood. Just emptiness.

Her body collapses inward like a deflating balloon. Limbs flop. Within seconds, the confident girl you knew is a flat, lifeless shell. Her face stares blankly at the ceiling. A skinsuit.

You can’t move. Can’t speak. Jennifer turned into just skin.

Your friend, though, steps forward, eyes alight with awe and mischief.

“Yo,” he says, nudging it with a toe. “She turned into a freaking suit?! Dude… you should put her on!”