Sign off

You take the stylus from Priya and sign your name across the partnership agreement, the digital signature locking in with a soft chime. Morgan follows, their hand steadier now than it's been all day, as if the act of commitment has settled something restless inside them.

"Perfect," Priya says, collecting the tablet. "The initial payment will process by Tuesday. Now, let's begin preparation."

She opens a sleek chrome case that's been sitting by the door since her arrival. Inside, nestled in foam padding, are two syringes filled with something that looks like liquid mercury mixed with gold dust. The nanite solution catches the dim apartment light and seems to move on its own, swirling with purposeful currents.

"The regeneration takes approximately six hours," Priya explains, laying out monitoring equipment on the bare floor. "You'll lose consciousness within minutes of injection. The nanites will systematically deconstruct your existing cellular structure and rebuild according to your specifications. It's not painful—your nervous system goes offline almost immediately."

Morgan strips without being asked, their aged body pale and fragile under the overhead light. You watch them fold their clothes with the careful precision of someone saying goodbye to a life. Their sagging breasts, the surgical scar from their appendectomy forty years ago, the liver spots across their shoulders—all of it will be gone by morning.

"Lie down on the mattress," Priya instructs. "Both of you. Side by side is fine. The process is more stable when subjects have physical contact during transformation."

You undress as well, feeling the familiar protests of your aging joints as you lower yourself onto the bare mattress. Morgan reaches for your hand immediately, their grip fierce.

"I'm scared," they whisper. "And I've never been more ready for anything in my life."

Priya kneels beside Morgan first, swabbing the inside of their elbow. "Count backward from ten."

"Ten, nine, eight—"

The needle slides in. Morgan's voice cuts off at seven, their eyes rolling back, their grip on your hand going slack. But they're still breathing, still warm. You watch their skin begin to shimmer, a subtle iridescence spreading from the injection site.

"Mr. Okonkwo." Priya is beside you now, the second syringe ready. "Same process. You'll wake when it's done."

You look at Morgan one last time—seventy-three years old, wrinkled and beautiful and yours. By morning, they'll be eighteen forever, with wings and pink eyes and a mind rewired to find joy in serving you.

"Do it," you say.

The needle is cold. The solution burns for just an instant, then warmth floods through you like honey through water. Your vision blurs. You feel your fingers intertwine with Morgan's one final time.

Then nothing.

You wake to sunlight streaming through uncovered windows.

Your body feels... wrong. No—not wrong. New. You lift your hand in front of your face and see smooth, unblemished skin. Strong fingers. No arthritis. No pain.

You sit up effortlessly, muscles responding with a precision you haven't felt since your twenties. The apartment looks different from this height, from these eyes. Everything is sharper, clearer. You can hear a conversation three floors down.

Beside you, something stirs.

Morgan rises like Venus from the waves—platinum hair cascading down their back, pale pink eyes blinking in confusion, their new body a symphony of impossible curves. The wings aren't attached yet—Priya mentioned those would be a separate procedure—but everything else is exactly as you designed.

"Alex?" Morgan's voice is higher, musical, uncertain. They look down at themselves and let out a sound that's half sob, half laugh. "Oh god. Oh god, it worked."

Their eyes find yours, and you watch their pupils dilate slightly as the obedience conditioning recognizes you for the first time.