For dozens of reasons, but reason doesn't have a voice

Alex didn’t mean to buy it. That’s what he told himself.

The ad showed up between posts on a forum he didn’t recognize, some corner of the web where the layout hadn’t been updated in a decade. Black background. Green text. An image that shimmered just enough to catch the eye. A simple promise:

Grow where it matters. No regrets. One pill. Permanent.

He almost laughed. Almost clicked away. But the name "Veilbud" was odd enough to stall his scroll. He said out loud, to no one, “If shipping takes longer than a week, I’m not ordering.”

The site promised six days.

He muttered, “If it costs more than thirty, I’m out.”

It was twenty-nine ninety-nine, with free tracked shipping.

He hesitated longer. “If it asks for ID or a real address, forget it.”

No ID. Just a discreet envelope, PO box approved.

Each excuse he built was dismantled before he could finish it. Every barrier just low enough to step over without admitting he’d chosen to climb. And that voice, faint and warm, nestled behind his thoughts, kept whispering approval.

Yes. This is for you. Finally.

The checkout page pulsed faintly, as if syncing with his breathing. He didn’t remember clicking confirm, but the order was placed.

Three nights later, the envelope arrived—one day earlier than promised.

His name was handwritten on the label. The return address was blank.

Inside, one pill. Small. Opalescent. Breathing beneath the seal.

He didn’t open it right away. He left it on his desk, still sealed, beside a half-used pack of nicotine gum and a mug of lukewarm tea. Every time he looked at it, he felt his stomach turn—not in disgust, but anticipation.

Three hours passed. He paced the apartment. Turned on the TV. Turned it off again. Picked up the envelope. Set it down.

Eventually, with the sun halfway below the skyline and shadows pooling in the corners of his room, Alex sat.

He held the pill between his thumb and forefinger. It was warm.

“This is stupid,” he whispered. “It’s just some scam. Some placebo.”

You don’t believe that.

He exhaled through his nose, steady. Measured. Trying to pretend his hand wasn’t trembling. Trying not to hear the voice.

You asked for more. This is more.

Alex looked down at his body. Not with hatred. Not with pride. Just resignation. He wasn’t what he wanted to be. Not really. Not fully.

He thought of all the times he’d avoided mirrors. The clothes he never wore. The way his voice sounded when he was tired, and how that was the only time it ever felt right.

“Fine,” he said. “One dose. Just to see.”

He placed the Veilbud on his tongue.

Swallowed.

Waited.

It began as warmth in his gut. Not sharp. Not burning. Just steady. Steady like a hand pressed flat against skin. Then came the pulse. Once, deep in his core. Then again. His body answered it. Muscles tensed, then relaxed. Bones didn’t break, but shifted, as though making room.

His hips ached first. A slow stretching, the sensation of cartilage realigning. Nerves fired not in pain, but unfamiliar pressure. He gasped and reached for the floor, grounding himself. His legs trembled as tendons shortened, posture tilting forward, balance re-centering.

Next came his chest. He gripped the fabric of his shirt as his ribs widened slightly, and beneath, tissue thickened, reformed. A pressure welled behind his sternum, and in moments, he felt the weight of it. His chest became buried under two of the biggest breast he had ever seen. Full, rounded, foreign, and yet somehow right. He touched one side, cautiously. His breath caught. It was real. Sensitive. Alive like nothing else.

His skin flushed, prickled, shimmered. Pores opened to new sensations. Touch felt louder. Temperature more nuanced. Hair shifted at the crown, lengthening strand by strand. His face tingled—not with pain, but with shape. The jaw softened. The cheeks lifted. The nose narrowed slightly. He saw none of it, but felt everything.

Between his legs, heat gathered. A pressure both inward and outward, coiling low in his pelvis like a question being rewritten. He doubled over—not in agony, but in something deeper. The sensation was too layered to name. The sensation in his core spread further, low and twisting. He gasped again, louder this time, as a new structure began to form below his waist. Tissue blossomed where none had been before, and flesh shifted like sculpted wax, reshaped from within.

There was no pain. Only fullness. A strange union, part ache, part pleasure, part fear. The space between his legs opened, and something new rooted itself there. He felt the presence of both, not competing but coexisting. A pressure above. A bloom below. Sensitive, raw, impossibly alive, and that was putting it lightly. Like a candle in a dark room, one sensation rose above all else, the tip of his cock pushing down the leg of his shorts, rock hard and growing, he could feel the stitching and the fabric moving past the tip, until he could feel the cold wave of fresh air.

His hands trembled, then steadied. The chaos passed slowly, leaving behind a silence that was not empty, but dense. Saturated with presence.

Alex lay curled on the floor, half in shadow, breathing hard, his body utterly changed.

Yes, the voice whispered again. Now we begin.

And like that, he became a she, and she passed out on the floor to the whispers closer then ever.