The grease on your hands is real, and the familiar sound of the radio is playing in the background as you lean over your bike. You were just trying to fix a stubborn leak, reaching deep into the engine, when your wrench hit something it shouldn't have—a spark of violet light, a sudden hum that vibrated through your very soul. ​Everything went white for a moment. ​Now, as the smoke clears, the air in the garage feels heavy and charged with a strange, ancient power. You look down at your hands, and your heart skips a beat. Something is happening. A slow, steady heat starts at your core and begins to spread, pulling and reshaping you into something new. The reflection in the chrome is already starting to shift, the rough edges of who you were softening into the silhouette of a woman. You're changing, right here on the garage floor, and the silver bike is humming as if it’s waiting for the new you to finally take the wheel.