Vivienne explores her home

Vivienne stood in the center of the bedroom, the air still tingling on her skin like static from a forgotten storm. Her fingers - slim, graceful - still tingled as they brushed the star necklace at her throat. The RAC rested quietly on the dresser, its screen dimmed to a soft amber glow.

The room looked... familiar. But not quite. It had changed.

The bed was larger than she remembered, the comforter now a plush sand-colored velvet. Throw pillows she didn’t own an hour ago sat in perfect geometric symmetry. The scent in the air had shifted too, no longer the faint chemical musk of single-man neglect. Now it was warm, floral, feminine. A hint of sandalwood clung to the back of her throat.

She walked toward the closet, the denim of her wide-leg jeans swishing softly with each step, trench coat fluttering behind her like a silk flag of defiance. When she pulled open the door, her breath caught.

Gone were the practical button-ups, cargo pants, and lab gear. In their place: a curated wardrobe of high-waisted trousers, sleek bodysuits, tailored jackets, silky blouses in earth tones. Coats with structure and drama. Hangers spaced precisely apart. Shoes - so many shoes - sat lined in neat rows: block heels, pointed boots, strappy sandals. A life constructed, not simply imagined.

She reached out and touched a dark green satin blouse, her fingers sinking into the smoothness.

"This wasn’t just me changing," she murmured. "The RAC rewrote my entire life."

Joi moved through the apartment in a slow, graceful circuit - every detail subtly altered to mirror her new self. The artwork had changed: abstract forms and feminine figures now adorned the walls. The bathroom counter was scattered with skincare jars, perfume bottles, makeup arranged with casual precision.

She picked up a tube of lipstick - deep burgundy, labeled "Mire Seduction #41" - and stared at her reflection in the mirror above the sink. A test.

She applied it slowly, lips parting, upper lip fuller than she remembered. The color was perfect. Of course it is, she thought.

She didn’t look like someone playing dress-up. She looked like someone who knew exactly who she was.

There were no photographs of Jon left. Not on the walls. Not in the drawers. Not even in the hidden folder on her hard drive. That history was... absorbed. Archived. Vivienne still remembered being Jon. But it felt more like a memory of someone she once read about, not someone she was.

Back in the living room, she found a small sideboard where Jon’s old liquor cabinet used to be. Inside: wine. Organic. French. She opened the bottle, poured a glass, and carried it to the window.

She took a sip, then turned back to the room. Her room. Her sanctuary.

"This place knows me better than I do," she whispered. “It’s not just changed. It’s mine.”

A thought struck her then: a warm, magnetic idea.

If the RAC rewrote her home to reflect her identity… what would it do to someone else’s?

The idea prickled her spine in a delicious way. The possibilities weren’t just personal anymore. The RAC didn’t just alter form. It altered narrative.

Which meant… she could write more. More identities. More people.

Vivienne turned to the RAC, where it now sat blinking, as if aware it had been noticed again. Her smile curled.

“I think,” she said, lifting it delicately, “it’s time I had guests.”