Neighborly adjustments

Vivienne stood at her window again, her wine glass now empty. The city outside buzzed indifferently, but inside, reality bent quietly to her will.

Her fingers danced along the RAC’s controls. She hadn’t stopped thinking about it since the moment she noticed the changes in her home - how her environment had seamlessly adjusted to reflect her new form. The transformation wasn’t isolated to flesh. It was narrative, spatial, relational. That power meant she wasn’t bound to isolation. She could write herself company.

Not just someone to talk to. Someone to match her.

Her eyes drifted to the apartment across the hall. Unit 3B. Her neighbor - Angela, or maybe it was Annika? She barely remembered now. The woman had always been polite, forgettable. Office blouses. Quiet heels. One of those people who seemed to live in grayscale.

Vivienne smiled, tilting the RAC ever so slightly toward the door. “Let’s rewrite that.”

She navigated to Target Lock, and the screen blinked red, scanning the spatial data and identity tether of the woman next door. Then: LOCK CONFIRMED.

[ OVERWRITE PROFILE: NEIGHBOR - ACTIVE]

Vivienne leaned back into her velvet couch, crossed her legs, and exhaled. The RAC hummed.

She began to sculpt.

She didn't want someone like her - another reflection. No, this needed to be complementary, provocative. Vivienne imagined someone softer in mood but fuller in form. A contrast in presence. A balance of heat and indulgence.

She refined the template: mid-20s, curvaceous and lush, soft thighs and wide hips, a heavy bust that strained against casual, tight tank tops. Denim shorts so short they looked like afterthoughts. Long, glossy black hair, full lips, and a confidence so natural it didn’t need permission.

Someone who took selfies like it was a rite of existence.

Someone who made Vivienne look twice.

She pressed "Apply."

The RAC blinked. Across the hall, the lights in 3B flickered.

Reality rippled. And then, a knock.

Vivienne rose slowly, her cami adjusting itself like it knew what was coming. She opened the door.

There she stood.

The girl was exactly as envisioned: plump and radiant, her top impossibly snug, denim cutoffs frayed high on thick thighs. Her flip-flops slapped softly against the tile, and in one hand, she held a phone angled just so, catching her own reflection in the hall mirror.

She looked up. Her smile was slow and familiar, like she and Vivienne had always known each other.

“Hey, babe,” the woman said, cocking a hip. “Took you long enough to open the door. I was starting to think you forgot about me.”

Vivienne blinked, once, slow and measured.

Not in disbelief. Not in hesitation. In recognition.

There she was. All curves and confidence, standing in the doorway like she'd lived there a hundred times before. A powder-blue tank clung tightly to her full chest, straps stretched thin over warm, golden skin. Her denim shorts looked painted on, frayed dangerously high on thick, sun-kissed thighs. Long black hair tumbled down her back, the waves slightly tousled, styled by the breeze or maybe just by being naturally perfect.

In one hand, she held her phone, her lips slightly parted in a pout as she caught her own reflection in the hallway mirror.

Then, she looked at Vivienne.

And grinned.

“Hey, babe,” Mari said, stepping into the doorway without waiting. “Took you long enough. I thought we agreed! Door open when your panties drop.”

Vivienne blinked again, this time smiling.

Mari brushed past her like gravity favored her curves, hips swaying lazily with every step. The scent of coconut oil and warm perfume lingered behind her. She plopped herself down on the armrest of Vivienne’s velvet couch, one leg swinging casually as she adjusted her top, not modestly, but to frame herself better for a selfie.

She turned her head just enough to glance over her shoulder. “You pouring me a glass, or did I show up too early for aftercare?”

Vivienne’s lips parted, but no words came at first. She hadn’t written this woman’s memories, had she?

But Mari didn’t look like someone under delusion. She looked at Vivienne the way someone looks at a well-worn secret. With history. With hunger. Like this wasn’t new. Like they’d been doing this for months.

Vivienne leaned against the wall, watching her, absorbing everything.

“You act like you live here,” she said finally, voice low.

Mari raised an eyebrow. “I live across the hall. But let’s be real, this couch’s had more of my ass than yours lately.”

She took a selfie, thumbed a filter, then set her phone down on the couch and gave Vivienne a real look. Soft. Knowing.

“We’re still doing tonight, right? You texted me ‘hungry’ with three fire emojis and then ghosted me for an hour. What gives?”

Vivienne stepped closer, slowly. Mari didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink.

She laughed, leaned back against the couch, arms splayed lazily. “Babe, for real. Come here already.”

Vivienne stared a second longer. Then walked forward, like gravity answered to her now.