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It started with a dare. It always did. Mark wasn’t some idiot who believed in supernatural nonsense. A bunch of guys had bet him 50 bucks to check out this "cursed fashion boutique" that had popped up overnight in a dingy alleyway. The place was too pristine, too sleek, like it had no business being there. But whatever. Free money was free money. Stepping inside, Mark felt the atmosphere shift. The air smelled like leather, perfume, and a hint of something electric. Racks of punk-rock outfits lined the space, each piece looking like it had a personality of its own. "Welcome,
sweetheart," purred a voice.
Mark turned, coming face-to-face with a woman who didn’t look real. She was tall, dressed in high-high boots and a ripped corset, her nails razor-sharp and gleaming like polished steel. Her eyes shimmered with an unnatural glow.
"Uhh… just looking," Mark muttered, feeling the weight of her stare. The woman smirked, reaching for a black leather jacket on a nearby rack. The moment her fingers grazed it, the room seemed to hum with anticipation. "This one’s perfect for you," she said, holding it out. Mark scoffed. "Yeah, not my style."
But the second he touched it, something surged through him—hot, electric, alive. His body locked up as heat rushed through his veins. His fingers spasmed, the leather of the jacket feeling too real, like it was sinking into his skin. His muscles trembled as a sharp, tingling sensation traveled up his arms, through his chest, and down his legs. "W-what the hell…?" Mark gasped, his voice already shifting, softening in a way that sent a jolt of panic through him.
His reflection in a nearby mirror twisted. His face—shrinking, softening, reshaping. His jawline slimmed, his nose refined, his lips plumping into a smirking, dangerous curve. His eyes burned as their shape changed, long lashes flicking out as he blinked. His hair—white. No—platinum blonde. It spilled down his back, long, wild, rebellious like it had a mind of its own.
Mark stumbled back, his body shifting, muscles compressing, his entire form shrinking and twisting against his will. The oversized hoodie he had been wearing burned away into a black tube top, revealing a toned, feminine stomach, the fabric tight against his forming curves. A white hog’s nose design stretched across his chest—his chest that was now growing, rounding, becoming impossible to ignore.
His jeans melted away into a flirty black-and-red miniskirt, riding way too high on his thighs. And those legs? Longer, shapelier. Black stockings slid up his skin, streaked with bold red stripes. The panic in his chest swelled, but the changes weren’t stopping. His hips snapped outward, his waist cinching, every inch of his new body designed to be flawless, rebellious, and dangerously hot.
"No… n-no, I don’t want this!" Mark gasped, his voice now decadently feminine, husky, sultry, and perfect. A weight settled on his head—red sunglasses. Mark—no, Burnice—staggered forward, breathing shallow and unsteady. The woman grinned. "Oh, sweetheart, you’re gonna love this."
Burnice felt it. The way the leather, the crop top, the skirt—they weren’t just clothes. They were her. The way her lips curled into a smirk without thinking. The way her hips swayed naturally. The fire in her chest that made her want to stand at the center of the world and demand everyone’s attention.
She looked at her reflection—at the punk-rock goddess staring back at her. She should’ve screamed. She should’ve fought. But instead… her fingers slid over the smooth leather of her jacket, a slow, knowing smile curling her lips. Like it had always been hers.
Like she had always been Burnice White.