Accept Pan's deal — promise to wear whatever costume is on the card, no matter what.

Pandora's Box Costume Shop, Birch Street, at 12:51 AM on Thursday October 31st, 2024

"I promise," I say.

The words taste like ash and honey simultaneously. My voice — still that breathy, feminine catgirl purr — cracks on the second syllable. I'm kneeling on the cold tile, cum cooling on my inner thighs, my tail twitching behind me, my ears pressed flat against my skull. And I'm looking up at Pan like she's the only thing in the universe that matters, because right now she is. She holds the key to everything I've lost.

"I promise," I repeat, stronger this time. "Whatever's on that card. I'll wear it. I'll see it through. Just — change me back. Please."

Pan's expression transforms. Not into triumph — something deeper, something almost reverent. She sinks to her knees before me, her face inches from mine, and takes both my hands in hers. The black card presses between our joined palms like a beating heart.

"Say it clearly, kitten," she whispers. Her amber eyes are enormous, the slit pupils blown wide. "Tell me exactly what you're promising."

"I promise to put on whatever costume this card leads to," I say, my throat tight. "No matter what it is. No backing out. I'll see it through to the end. And when I do... you'll change me back. Fully. Trevor again."

"To the end," she echoes, her thumbs stroking my knuckles. "No matter how it feels. No matter what it does to you. No matter how much you want to stop."

"Yes. To the end."

She closes her eyes for a moment — a single, shuddering breath — and when she opens them again, something ancient and vast moves behind those amber irises. She presses her lips to my forehead, a gesture so tender it makes my chest ache.

"Then we have a deal, Trevor."

She releases my hands and stands, pulling me up with her. My legs are unsteady — still catgirl legs, still curvy and feminine — but she steadies me with one hand on my waist. Then she snaps her fingers.

The change hits like a wave of ice water. My ears shrink, the fur receding, migrating back to the sides of my head. My tail dissolves — the sensation of it disconnecting from my spine is nauseating, like losing a limb I didn't know I had. My breasts deflate, hips narrow, and between my legs, my cock returns — still smaller than it was originally, but there, unmistakably male. The collar loosens and falls away, the bell chiming once as it hits the floor.

I'm Trevor again. Mostly. My nipples are still swollen. My hips are slightly wider than they should be. My cock is still reduced. But I'm me.

"There," Pan says softly, stepping back. She gestures toward the fitting room. "Go. The costume is waiting. And Trevor —" She catches my arm as I turn. Her grip is gentle but her eyes are fierce. "Remember your promise. No matter what you see in there. No matter what it makes you feel. You wear it."

I nod. My hands are shaking. I walk back to the fitting room on legs that feel almost normal, my bare feet slapping against tile, my reduced cock swinging between my thighs. The door is open. The mirror reflects my haunted, masculine face — thinner, more feminine than it was hours ago, but recognizably mine.

On the bench, where the catgirl costume sat minutes ago, there's something new. A single garment — a bodysuit of deep crimson latex, so thin it's nearly transparent. Attached to it: two small curved horns on a headband. A pair of leathery wings, folded flat. A tail with a spaded tip. And a choker of black velvet with a single red gemstone at its center.

The silhouette on the card was a succubus.

My stomach drops. Every instinct screams at me to run. But I made a promise. And Pan is standing behind me, watching, her amber eyes patient and hungry and absolutely certain.

The bodysuit waits on the bench like a second skin eager to be worn.