Answer B: 2033

Derek's eyebrows arch upward in theatrical surprise, his mouth forming a perfect 'O' of mock disappointment. He glances at his tablet, then back up at you with that shark's grin widening impossibly further.

"B: 2033," he repeats, letting the words hang in the air like a noose. "Oh Marcus. Marcus, Marcus, Marcus." He shakes his head slowly, clicking his tongue against his teeth. "I had such high hopes for you. Really, I did. Former quarterback, cool under pressure, all that wonderful résumé padding."

The audience groans collectively, a sound somewhere between sympathy and anticipation.

"The correct answer," Derek announces, spinning toward the cameras with practiced showmanship, "was C: 2035. The Kellerman-Ross patent, filed on March fourteenth, 2035. Changed the world, really. Made shows like this possible." He gestures broadly at the studio. "Should've studied harder, sport."

A klaxon blares through the studio—three harsh, descending notes that make your teeth ache. Red lights begin pulsing from the booth above and behind you.

"Rita, darling," Derek calls out, his voice dripping with false sweetness. "Our contestant has earned his first modification. Let's make it... educational."

"Ooh, exciting!" Rita's voice squeals through the speakers. "Okay, so like, initiating sequence one! This is gonna be super cute!"

The shackles at your wrists suddenly glow with a pale blue light. You feel a tingling sensation starting in your fingertips, spreading up your arms. Your body goes rigid as the transformation technology activates. The sensation isn't painful, exactly—more like pins and needles mixed with an electric current.

Your hair lengthens slightly, the sandy brown darkening to a richer shade, falling past your collar now. Your jawline softens imperceptibly. Your button-down shirt feels tighter across the chest, and when you glance down, you notice the beginning of what might charitably be called pectoral enhancement—small mounds pressing against the fabric.

"Nothing too dramatic for round one," Derek narrates, circling you like a predator. "Just a little feminization to start. Some breast tissue, softer features. Our audience loves the journey, after all. Can't rush the good stuff."

A second set of shackles emerges from the podium, locking around your ankles with a decisive click.

"And there's lock number two," Derek announces cheerfully. "That'll be another hundred thousand to remove, assuming you ever earn enough to afford it. Current bank balance: zero dollars. Current debt to freedom: two hundred thousand."

He leans in close enough that you can smell his cologne—something expensive and cloying. "Ready for question two, Marcus? Or should I start calling you something else?"

You take a slow breath, feeling the unfamiliar weight on your chest shift with the movement. The shackles around your ankles are cold, unyielding. Your hands grip the edge of the podium, and you **** yourself to meet Derek's eyes.

"I'm ready for question two," you say, keeping your voice level despite the strangeness of how the words feel leaving your slightly fuller lips.

Derek's expression shifts into something approximating delight. He claps his hands together once, sharply. "Now that's what I call spirit! Ladies and gentlemen, Marcus Webb is playing through the pain!" He turns back to you, that predatory gleam never leaving his eyes. "I do love it when contestants fight back. Makes the inevitable so much sweeter."

The audience responds with scattered applause and a few catcalls. Someone yells something you don't quite catch, but it draws laughter from the crowd.

"Question Two," Derek announces, consulting his tablet again. "For twenty thousand dollars, which would put you one-fifth of the way to affording your freedom." He pauses for effect. "Last year, celebrity chef Antonio Vasquez had a very public meltdown on social media. What was he complaining about? Was it A: His restaurant losing its third Michelin star, B: A food critic calling his signature dish 'derivative,' C: His ex-wife's tell-all memoir, or D: Being snubbed at the James Beard Awards?"

He looks up at you expectantly. "Take your time, Marcus. Though I should mention—Rita has already queued up transformation sequence two, just in case. She's very efficient, our Rita."

"Super efficient!" Rita's voice chirps from above. "I've got, like, the cutest modifications ready to go if needed!"

Derek's smile widens fractionally. "The clock is ticking, sport. What's your answer?"

The studio lights feel hotter now, or maybe that's just you. The shackles around your wrists and ankles are constant reminders of exactly how much control you've already lost. Through the glare of the spotlights, you can make out faces in the audience—some eager, some hungry, all waiting to see if you'll stumble again.