The Closet Problem

Gary slammed the bedroom door behind them and leaned against it, chest tight, heart pounding.

He couldn't believe what had just happened downstairs. His parents—his perfectly normal, TV-watching, casserole-baking parents—had looked at him like he'd shown up in a tutu and fishnets. And Wyatt—beautiful, impossible Wyatt—had stood there like her having tits was the most natural thing in the world.

He turned toward her.

She was standing by his desk lamp, one hand on her hip, pink dress catching the light like molten metal. Her expression was calm, even a little amused. She didn't look like someone who'd just been turned into a living wet dream of femininity.

"You okay?" she asked.

"No, Wyatt, I'm not okay!" Gary snapped, then winced. "My mom just told me my jeans were indecent. My dad called me 'son' like he was staging an intervention. You—" he gestured vaguely "—you're standing there like a Bond girl in a porno!"

Wyatt crossed her arms, which only made things worse for two obvious reasons. "Hey, take it easy. We just need to figure out what went wrong with the program. It's not that bad."

"Not that bad?" Gary rubbed his forehead. "Wyatt, you're—" he stopped himself before the words came out, though his eyes kept moving of their own accord. "You're completely transformed. And everyone's acting like I'm the weird one."

Wyatt tilted her head. "You noticed that too, huh?"

Gary barked out a laugh that sounded more like panic. "Yeah, I noticed."

Wyatt took a slow breath, like she was testing out her lungs. "Okay. Look. Let's just move past your parents. The sooner we fix the code, the sooner things go back to normal."

"Right. Equipment. We'll need my backup rig." Gary crossed the room, trying to ignore how his pulse jumped every time he caught the sound of Wyatt's heels behind him. "I keep it in the closet."

He yanked open the double doors.

The light flicked on automatically—and the air left his lungs.

No towers. No cables. No servers. No spare GPUs stacked in milk crates like usual.

Instead: rows of skirts. Blouses. Dresses. A lineup of high-heeled shoes that gleamed like tiny mechanical soldiers.

He stared at them, open-mouthed. "What the hell is this?"

Wyatt peeked over his shoulder, one manicured hand covering her smile. "Guess your hardware got... upgraded."

"Upgraded?!" Gary's voice cracked. "This is my closet! Where are my computers?"

Wyatt giggled, the sound soft and melodic.

Panic crawled up Gary's throat. He spun toward his dresser. Maybe the equipment got moved—maybe—

He pulled the drawers open one after another.

Lace. Satin. Silk.

Neatly folded, perfumed, and utterly alien.

He froze. "Oh no."

Slowly, he turned toward his desk.

Where his triple-monitor setup should have been sat a sleek vanity mirror ringed with lights. Rows of makeup stretched across the surface like an artist's palette gone rogue—foundation, lip gloss, brushes, powder, all perfectly arranged.

For a long moment, the only sound in the room was Wyatt's soft laughter.

"Gary," she said, voice lilting. "I think the universe is trying to tell you something."

He didn't answer. He was too busy staring at a tube of mascara that, impossibly, had his name written on it.