You we're suffering from gender disorder, you felt like a butterfly trapped in their own cocoon for many years, you decided to take action and found a place where rumors of a witch that can either cure diseases or change bodies with habdmaded medicine circulated, you entered at the place, push open the warped door beneath the crooked sign: HERBS & SPIRITS. Warm, damp air heavy with herbs and incense closes around you. Shelves sag with jars and roots, and from the back she emerges: the witch.

Selene.

Dark hair spilling in waves, pale face sharpened by candlelight, eyes bright with mischief and care. Draped in black shawls stitched with silver, she smiles — motherly one moment, sly the next. “Ah, a traveler caged in the wrong flesh. Tell me, darling, what is it you crave?”

You whisper the truth: “I want to be a woman. Beautiful. Perfect.”

Her fingers trace your cheek, cold then burning. “Poor child. Such hunger. Such despair.” She produces a vial, rattling with dull pink pills. “One each day for a month… or all at once. Hours instead of weeks. Painful. Agonizing. But you’ll shine in the end.”

You press the money into her palm. Her laugh is warm and wicked. “Go. Dress yourself in your dream. Swallow them all. And breathe.”

At home you slide into the tight pink dress that mocks your flat frame, pop the vial, and force down all thirty-nine pills. Heavy in your stomach, bitter on your tongue. You sit at the edge of the bed, hands steady, eyes closed. In. Out. In. Out.

The ache begins.

Your spine cracks, each vertebra snapping into a new line. Ribs tighten, chest compressed. Clavicles grind, shoulders narrow. Your jaw burns as bone scrapes into a softer shape, cheekbones pushing upward. Hips split wide, pelvis stretching with molten agony. Arms shorten, legs realign, knees popping, femurs creaking. You breathe through every jolt, body trembling but mind steady.

Then flesh follows. Your stomach bubbles, waist hollowing as hips bloom thick with fat. Thighs swell, calves curve. Your chest ignites, breasts pushing outward, pressing against the dress until the fabric clings tight. Arms slim, wrists delicate, fingers narrowing. Your throat convulses, Adam’s apple vanishing, your scream breaking higher — yet you compose yourself, whispering In. Out. Sweat runs down smooth new skin.

The surface burns last. Hair spills in waves, silky strands of silky blonde hair sliding over your shoulders. Skin prickles, pores tightening, roughness melting into silk. Lips swell, cheeks lift, jawline softens. The mirror shows a stranger’s face sculpted into beauty — your face.

The dress, once sagging, now hugs every contour: breasts straining the top, waist pinched, hips plush, thighs pressing the hem. Every inch aches, every nerve still alight, but you breathe. Steady. Calm.

And in the glass, for the first time, she smiles back. Not the man you were, but the woman you begged to become.

Selene’s voice lingers in your mind: “Breathe, darling. Every crack, every tear… all for this.”

You inhale, exhale. And the reflection shines.