Jessica Rodriguez

The revolving doors whisper shut behind you, sealing you inside with a pneumatic sigh that feels too final. The lobby stretches vast and white before you—white marble floors that click under your heels, white walls that curve upward into a cathedral ceiling, white leather furniture arranged in clusters like teeth. Everything gleams with that particular sterility of expensive medical facilities or high-end spas, places where bodies are worked on, improved, optimized.

The woman behind the reception desk looks up as you approach, and you feel that familiar flutter of inadequacy that's driven you here in the first place. She's maybe thirty, with the kind of bone structure that photographs like architecture—sharp cheekbones, a jawline that could cut glass, eyes so pale blue they're nearly colorless. Her blonde hair falls in a perfect sheet to her shoulders, not a strand out of place. She's wearing a crisp white blouse that probably costs more than your rent.

"Good morning," she says, and her voice is warm honey despite her ice-princess looks. "Welcome to The Exchange. I'm Miranda. Is this your first time with us?"

You nod, suddenly aware of your own reflection in the glossy surface of her desk—pretty enough, sure, but next to her you're just another brunette in jeans and a nice top, the kind of girl who gets looked at but not remembered.

"Wonderful," Miranda continues, tapping something on the tablet embedded in her desk. "I'll need you to fill out some preliminary paperwork—medical history, current traits you're interested in trading, desired outcomes, that sort of thing. Then one of our Agents will sit down with you for a consultation to discuss your options." She pauses, studying you with professional assessment. "May I ask what brought you to us today? It helps us match you with the right Agent."

Her eyes are doing that thing—that quick up-down scan that models and photographers do, cataloguing your assets and flaws in a microsecond. You can almost hear her mental inventory: good figure, decent face, nothing special. The same evaluation you've gotten at a hundred casting calls.

"We have several Agents available this morning," she adds, sliding a glossy black tablet across the desk toward you. "But if you can give me a sense of your goals, I can recommend someone who specializes in those areas. Physical enhancement? Cognitive improvement? Personality adjustment? We handle everything here."

Behind her, you can see a hallway leading deeper into the building, its walls lined with doors. White doors, of course. Everything here is white except the people, and even some of them look bleached of color, as if too many trades have leached the life from them.

This story written with AI at infinite worlds: https://infiniteworlds.app/shared/GuoVXU