Chapter 10

The harsh LA sunlight filtering through my blinds drags me kicking and screaming from the depths of sleep. My head pounds with a dull, rhythmic ache – not a hangover, strangely enough, but the phantom echo of one, maybe? Or just the psychic residue of the absolute clusterfuck that was last night. I groan, rolling over, burying my face in the pillow.

The artifact club. Jesus. It feels like a fever dream now. Meeting other wielders, seeing their powers – Li’s race-shifting locket, Mike’s mind-reading implant, Noah’s insane shapeshifting (Margot Robbie with G-cups and a horse cock? Seriously?). It was exhilarating, terrifying, like stepping through a hidden door into a reality operating on cheat codes. And then Bill. God, Bill. His calm, dad-like demeanor peeling back to reveal the zealous leader, the warnings about the First Artifact, the fucking bounty. My blood runs cold just thinking about it. They’re hunting for the device. For me. The weight of the Swapper, currently tucked safely in my nightstand drawer, suddenly feels like a lead brick.

Then there was Lila. Swapping bodies. Fucking in her skin while she fucked me with mine. The memory hits me with the **** of a physical blow – the disorientation, the sheer, mind-bending eroticism of it. And that feeling… that undeniable preference for receiving, for being the girl… it lingers, unsettling and persistent, a truth I’d rather ignore but can’t quite shake. We almost got caught by Bill, too. The panic, the mad dash out, pretending to be each other… followed by swapping my drunkenness onto that poor random dude on the street.

“You’re getting way too comfortable playing God, you know that?” Lila’s words echo in my head. Am I? Maybe. The ease with which I just… fixed the DUI problem, the casual disregard for the consequence I’d inflicted on someone else… it felt good. Too good. Like finally understanding how the game is played, realizing I hold the ultimate trump card. It’s intoxicating. Addictive.

I **** myself out of bed, legs tangled in the sheets. Need coffee. Need to function. Need to pretend last night was just a weird dream, even though the device humming faintly in my drawer proves otherwise.

Downstairs, the smell of burnt toast hangs heavy in the air. Mom’s at the stove, scraping furiously at a blackened slice, while my sister, Cindy, sits at the kitchen table scrolling through her phone, looking bored.

“Morning, sunshine,” Mom greets without looking up, her voice tight with toast-induced frustration. “Sleep okay?”

“Yeah, fine,” I mumble, heading straight for the coffee maker.

Cindy glances up, gives me a noncommittal grunt, then goes back to her phone. My eyes snag on her chest – or rather, the lack thereof. Still Emma’s flat A-cups, a souvenir from that ill-fated attempt weeks ago to give Emma bigger boobs by swapping with Cindy. Emma, thankfully, also has no clue her original chest is currently residing on my sister. The casual body-part shuffling my life now involves is getting ridiculous.

I pour myself a mug of coffee, leaning against the counter, trying to shake off the lingering weirdness of last night. The domestic normalcy feels jarring, like watching a sitcom on mute while a thriller movie soundtrack plays in my head.

“Big plans today?” Mom asks, finally abandoning the burnt offering and reaching for a fresh slice.

“Just work,” I sigh. “The usual café grind.”

“Sounds thrilling.” Cindy mutters sarcastically from behind her phone.

I ignore her, downing half the coffee in one go. The caffeine hits, sharpening the edges of my thoughts, bringing last night’s anxieties back into focus. The bounty. Bill’s suspicion. Lila. Emma. I need to compartmentalize. Work first, existential artifact crisis later.

Back upstairs, I shower quickly, letting the hot water pound against my skull. Get dressed – barista uniform, black apron. Then, the ritual. I open the nightstand drawer, pick up the Swapper. It feels cool and heavy in my palm, pulsing with that faint, familiar energy. A tool. A weapon. A key to unlocking… everything. I slip it into my jeans pocket. Can’t leave home without it.

Driving to work, the city feels different. Every face in the cars around me, every pedestrian on the sidewalk – are they just normal people? Or could they be wielders? Could they know about the bounty? The paranoia is a low hum beneath the surface, making me jumpy. I park at work, get out, and start walking into the cafe.

My phone buzzes. A text from Lila.

Lila: Hey stranger. Survived the night? ;)

I smile faintly.

Me: Barely. You?

Lila: Please. I thrive on chaos. Last night was… fun. Especially the ending.

My stomach clenches, a weird mix of heat and anxiety.

Lila: Seriously though, stay low. Don’t draw attention. Let me poke around, see what I can find out about Bill and this bounty bullshit.

Me: Okay. Thanks, Lila.

Lila: Anytime, Swapper.

Then, another message pops up. It’s a picture. A selfie. Lila, lying on her bed, looking directly into the camera with sultry eyes, completely topless. Her C-cups look fantastic, nipples dark and puckered.

Below the image, another text:

Lila: Thinking about you… and what else that little device of yours can do.