You had just started dating Mira not long ago, right when she picked up her new gym hobby. Every evening she came home exhausted but smiling, talking about dumbbells and sore muscles. She was slim, small-framed, almost fragile-looking as she dropped her gym bag by the door that night.

“I’m dead tired,” she muttered, rubbing her eyes. “You did great today,” you said, watching her shuffle toward the bedroom.

A few days ago, you had seen a TV infomercial for a revolutionary muscle-growth formula. Impulsively, you had ordered it online. Now, seeing Mira asleep, it seemed like the perfect moment. You prepared a double dose.

“Just a little boost,” you whispered, pressing the injection carefully. “She’ll thank me.”

Morning light crept into the room. You stretched, then froze when you heard a scream from the bathroom.

“What the hell is happening to me?!” Mira yelled.

You rushed over. The door was half open. Mira stood there, staring at her reflection, white T-shirt torn into a tight tank, blue pants ripped apart.

“My arms— they’re huge!” she shouted, flexing by accident as the sink cracked slightly under her grip. “Mira… calm down...” you said, stunned. “You’re… really muscular.”

She turned toward you, eyes wide, voice shaking. “I went to sleep skinny! Why do I look like a bodybuilder?! What is this?"