You blink. The room looks the same. But your limbs are off—too long, too thin. You stumble toward your mirror and freeze.

You stare at a tall, periwinkle rabbit: long ears flopping, pale yellow eyes, sharp yellow teeth closed in a sly grin. Pink overalls, yellow gloves. It’s Jax. A trick—impossible—but your mind is undeniably yours.

A voice escapes you—monotone, sardonic:

“Great. Just great. I woke up as him.”

Your heart trembles. Your hands—gloved—float oddly. You lean closer to the mirror. The grin stretches wider. You catch your reflection: your memories, your voice, your cough.

A soft knock at the door. Your roommate enters, stepping back at the sight. Roommate: “Um… did you… cosplaying? You look exactly like Jax from the Digital Circus.” You shrug, voice clipped.

“pfft. I don't know, you tell me.”

They peer at you, confused. You pace. You feel something shift inside—pain, amusement, irritation. Jax is sarcastic, cruel when he wants to be. He pushes others away, hides things behind facades. Yet he sometimes reveals glimpses of deeper feelings.

You look at your hands again, flexing fingers. The weight of expectation creeps in. People will expect jokes, cruelty, distance.

You grin—though it’s not entirely yours—and mutter:

“Let’s see how long until I snap. Or amuse someone.”

And so your day begins: you, in Jax’s form, with all eyes on you—even if those eyes don’t understand who you really are. You’ll test the limits of cruelty, humor, and distance. Just… try not to break entirely.