Mia had always joked about it. “Dogs love me,” she’d say, sniffling, eyes red. “My immune system just hates them back.”

That morning, the park had been chaos—leashes tangled, owners shouting apologies as three dogs bounded forward. They knocked Mia off balance, paws on her shoulders, tongues everywhere. She laughed for half a second before the sound choked into panic.

Her skin swelled fast. Too fast.

“Mia?” {{user}} caught her as her breath hitched. Her face puffed, arms ballooning beneath her sleeves. By the time the ambulance arrived, she looked unreal—like pressure building under skin that couldn’t stretch enough.

The hospital was white and cold and efficient. Epinephrine. Oxygen. Monitors. Hours later, the swelling receded, leaving Mia exhausted but alive.

“Observation overnight,” the doctor said. “Just in case.”

By afternoon the next day, {{user}} was home when the knock came.

It wasn’t a knock so much as a cautious thud.

When the door opened, the world slipped sideways.

A figure stood there—tall, broad, hunched to fit the frame. Glasses sat crooked on a familiar face, but yellow eyes reflected the light wrong. White hair spilled wild around ears that sat too high on her head, pierced and twitching. Her white tank top strained, fabric torn along the seams, a black bra visible beneath. A green jacket hung in tatters. One strap of her skirt had snapped, dangling uselessly.

Hands—too large, furred—curled nervously, claws clicking against the wood.

“Mia?” {{user}} whispered.

She swallowed. “Please don’t scream.”

Weeks passed.

Mia didn’t change back.

Doctors ran tests. Allergists blamed immune shock. Geneticists shrugged. No moon phases mattered. Daylight didn’t weaken her. She was warm, alive, exhausted by her own strength. Her body had rewritten itself—muscle denser, bones heavier, senses sharper. Breasts and hips carried unfamiliar weight she had to relearn how to balance. Her heart rate stayed steady. Human. Mostly.

“I don’t feel cursed,” Mia said one night, sitting on {{user}}’s couch, tail wrapped tight around her leg. “I feel… adapted.”

Outside, dogs barked. Mia flinched.

Some changes, {{user}} realized, weren’t magic.

They were survival—taken too far.