Morning light finds him asleep in his clothes, barely rested. He packs both devices into his messenger bag and heads for the closest repair shop.

The bell jingles as he enters. A technician glances up from behind the counter — early twenties, a name tag reading ETHAN. His eyes skim past Caden's shoulders, landing somewhere around chin level. "Help you, ma'am?"

Caden's breath hitches. He sets the laptop and phone on the counter.

"Sir," he says, his pitch higher than expected, higher than a man's should be. He coughs, tries again. "Biometric lockout."

Ethan nods like he hears this daily. He flips open the laptop. "Password bypass is eighty bucks plus —"

"I'd rather recover the facial recognition."

Ethan's thumbs pause over the keyboard. He looks at Caden properly for the first time — really looks — then down at the devices. "These yours?"

Caden slides his driver's license across the counter. The photo shows him squinting against sunlight, jaw set, stubble shadowing his cheeks.

Ethan's eyebrows climb. He flips the card over, checking the expiration date. "This… isn't you."

"They're my devices."

"Right." Ethan sets the ID down carefully. "Just for security — you got purchase records? Cloud backups?"

Caden recites his email address, approximate date of purchase, the laptop's model number from memory. Ethan's skepticism softens slightly.

"Okay," he says finally. "Let's try admin overrides."

He works in silence, occasionally muttering technical terms under his breath. Caden watches the reflection of his own face in the monitor — the curve of his cheek, the way his brow had subtly reshaped itself.

Ethan hesitates. "You, uh… you know why the scan's not working?"

"I've been ill."

"Right." Ethan's gaze flicks to Caden's throat — smooth now, no trace of an Adam's apple. "Well, we can disable facial recognition, reset with a password…"

Caden nods. The screen flickers as Ethan bypasses layer after layer of security.

"Last step," Ethan says. "Need you to type in a new password."

Caden leans over the counter, fingers hovering above the keyboard. Ethan shifts slightly, creating space. The new password prompt blinks expectantly. Caden enters twelve characters without looking, muscle memory overriding the tremor in his hands.

Ethan nods. "Now the phone."

Ethan unlocks the phone proficiently, now that the laptop is accessible. As he moves to hand the phone back his thumb slips. The photos app springs open.

There it is. Full screen. High resolution. The cabin's dim lighting, the stark clinical angle — Caden's own body, photographed from below, unmistakably female, Caden's face visible in the image staring down. The image Caden had taken on day two, before he understood what was happening. Before he could process the implications.

Ethan freezes. His Adam's apple bobs once. For three heartbeats, neither of them moves. The shop's AC hums. A printer whirrs in the back.

Then, with robotic precision, Ethan swipes left. The next photo loads — a screenshot of a research paper, mercifully bland. He hands the phone back without meeting Caden's eyes. "You'll want to, uh. Factory reset the biometrics."

Caden pockets the device. "Right."

Ethan busies himself with the laptop's final settings. Neither of them mentions the photo. The transaction completes in silence — receipt printed, payment processed, devices returned. Ethan even manages a stiff "Have a nice day" as Caden shoulders his bag.

The bell jingles again on his way out.

---

Caden wakes suddenly, feeling a slickness against his boxers. Still lying down, he peeks into his underwear — ovulating, again. He rolls out of bed with a groan, wipes himself up, and tests a few vertical jumps in the dim morning light, the impact vibrating up through his calves. Surprisingly, his performance has stabilized. Better than last week, though not the explosive power he'd had before. His body is adapting. Until he reaches the third rep and feels it — a sharp, unfamiliar drag against his chest with each upward motion. He stops mid-jump, hands grabbing his breasts for support. The tissue isn't just denser now; it has weight. Movement without support borders on painful.

Today is the endocrinologist appointment. He pulls on a black t-shirt from the pile of laundry he's been avoiding. The fabric catches on his nipples first — sensitized enough now that he hisses at the contact — then settles over the unmistakable swell of developing breasts. No amount of loose cotton can hide the shape anymore. He turns sideways in the mirror. The silhouette is undeniably female.

Caden keeps his arms crossed in the waiting room, acutely aware of the way the receptionist's gaze flicks to his chest before darting away. A man lingers near the water cooler, pretending to check his phone. Caden catches him looking twice. The third time, the man doesn't glance away. Just stares openly until the click of heels on linoleum breaks the silence.

"Mr. Voss?" A male nurse stands in the doorway, tablet tucked under one arm. "Let's get your vitals first."

The male nurse guides him into the exam room. Caden keeps his eyes on the anatomical poster of the endocrine system while the nurse wraps the blood pressure cuff around his bicep. The Velcro tears louder than necessary.

The nurse positions the stethoscope skillfully. "You lift?"

Caden flexes out of habit. "Yeah." His voice comes out higher than he intended. The nurse's thumb presses into his vein a beat before releasing.

The needle slides in cleanly. Caden watches the vial fill dark and slow. The nurse's thumb hovers near the plunger, not pulling yet. Just… waiting. His gaze drifts up Caden's arm, over the slope of his shoulder, and settles somewhere near his collarbone. The AC hums. The tourniquet pinches.

Caden flexes his fist on instinct. The motion makes his chest shift — an involuntary betrayal. The nurse's eyes flick down, then up again, fast but not fast enough.

Before Caden can answer, the door clicks open. A woman in a white coat steps in, her stethoscope already swinging forward like a pendulum. "Mr. Voss? I'm Dr. Yuen." She doesn't extend a hand — she’s carrying a tablet and coffee — but her nod is precise. "We'll get your results in twenty minutes. Marcus, lipids panel too, please."

The nurse's grip tightens fractionally on the tourniquet before releasing it. He withdraws the needle with a practiced twist, pressing gauze to the puncture. "Hold that. You'll want to change into this gown for the exam."

Dr. Yuen sits with her chair angled toward the monitor, scrolling through lab results with the tip of her pen. "Your estrogen's elevated," she says, matter-of-fact. "LH's cycling like you're ovulating. Testosterone's effectively nil." She taps the screen twice. "This is what I can't place."

Caden leans forward, elbows on his knees. The blood draw site itches under the bandage. "What am I looking at?"

"Protein marker." She circles something on the report with her pen. "It's not human — at least, not in any database I've got." She turns toward him, elbows resting on her thighs. "No known etiology." The phrase lands like a verdict. She doesn't soften it with maybes or perhaps. Just fact.

Caden stares at the highlighted numbers. His pulse throbs where the IV had been. "Retroviral?" he asks.

"Possibly." She rotates the screen toward him. A waveform graph pulses — peaks and valleys in red and blue. "The structure's unfamiliar. It's not endogenous, it's not matching any exogenous database either." Her chair creaks as she leans back.

He nods. The paper gown crinkles under his fingers. "Can it be stopped?"

Dr. Yuen's pen hesitates above the clipboard. The fluorescent lights buzz overhead. She doesn't offer platitudes or false assurances — just the slow, methodical shake of her head. "There's no established protocol for this. If it's epigenetic, theoretically, we could target the promoter regions. But without knowing the mechanism..."

"So we wait."

"For now." She caps her pen.

The exam table paper crackles under Caden's thighs as Dr. Yuen adjusts her stool. Her gloved hands are warm — not clinical-cold like he expected — when she palpates the swelling tissue beneath his collarbones. "Tanner stage four, maybe five," she murmurs, more to herself than him. Her fingers trace the outer curves without pressure, mapping the ductwork beneath. "Any tenderness?"

"Just when —" Caden's voice catches. He clears his throat. "Movement. Running."

She nods, already scribbling. "You're likely near full development." Her pen pauses. "Any changes in social interactions? Unwanted attention?"

The vinyl of the exam table creaks as Caden shifts. Marcus' wandering eye flashes momentarily in his memory. "Nothing overt."

Dr. Yuen's eyebrow lifts slightly above her glasses frame. She sets down the clipboard with deliberate care. "I'm going to recommend a compression bra for physical activity. Nothing restrictive — just support."

---

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