The waiting room felt suffocating. Chuck, Brandon, and Ryan sat in tense silence, their usual banter subdued by the weight of what was coming. The designation tests were supposed to be a formality, but deep down, all three of them knew the truth—change was inevitable.
Chuck tried to steady his breathing, but his fingers dug into his knees. He had spent years trying to convince himself that adulthood wasn’t so bad, that he could find a place in it. But deep down, he had always felt like he didn’t belong, like the expectations of responsibility and ambition weren’t meant for him. And now, the possibility of change loomed over him like a storm cloud.
Brandon, ever the joker, nudged Ryan. “Bet they’re just gonna tell us we’re all fine and send us home.” His voice carried its usual confidence, but there was a nervous edge to it.
Ryan, the most assured of the three, smirked and leaned back in his chair. “Obviously. We’ve got nothing to worry about. We’re going to walk out of here exactly the same.”
Chuck forced a laugh, but the knot in his stomach tightened. He wasn’t sure he wanted that to be true.
Before anyone could say anything else, the door opened. A woman in a crisp white uniform stepped in and scanned the room. “Ryan Foster.”
Ryan rolled his eyes and stood, stretching. “Be back in a minute.” He shot them a wink before following her inside.
Chuck exhaled, watching the door shut behind him. The room felt quieter without Ryan’s energy. Brandon shifted in his chair, drumming his fingers against the armrest.
A few minutes passed. Then the door opened again.
Ryan stepped out, but something was wrong.
He was shorter. His clothes hung awkwardly on him, his limbs shrinking into something… smaller, sleeker. His brown hair was thick, almost shaggy now, and his hands—no, his paws—trembled slightly as he stood there. His shoes had fallen off, revealing bare feet that were no longer human.
His brown eyes were wide, filled with a mix of confusion and horror.
Brandon bolted up. “Dude—what the hell?!”
Ryan opened his mouth, but instead of words, only a soft, involuntary whimper came out.
Chuck’s stomach dropped. Ryan was changing. Right in front of them.
The woman in white cleared her throat. “Ryan Foster has been designated as a household pet.”
A sickening silence settled over them.
Ryan took an unsteady step forward, but his new paws fumbled beneath him. His body was still shifting—his ears stretching upward, his nose darkening, his proportions adjusting into something no longer human.
“No,” Ryan whispered, his voice strained, warping into something softer, smaller. “No, no, no—this isn’t—”
But it was already happening. Fur began to sprout along his arms. His fingers curled inward, disappearing into forming paws. His eyes, still so very human, darted wildly between his friends.
“Help me,” he whispered, before another transformation hit, and his words dissolved into a pitiful yelp.
Brandon and Chuck could only stare.
Ryan was gone.
In his place, a medium-sized dog—no, something more domesticated, more pet-like—sat trembling in the spot where their best friend had been. His brown eyes were still the same, still filled with recognition, with fear.
Chuck’s breath came in short gasps. This wasn’t happening. It couldn’t be happening.
Brandon turned, fury in his eyes. “You bastards—he’s not a damn pet! That’s Ryan!”
The woman in white didn’t react. “Next,” she said, unfazed. “Brandon Hale.”
Brandon froze.
Chuck turned to him. “Brandon, don’t—”
But Brandon was already stepping forward, his jaw clenched. “Screw this. I’m not going out like that.”
He disappeared into the examination room.
Chuck swallowed hard and turned to Ryan—no, the dog—who was still sitting there, his body tense, his breathing rapid. His clothes lay pooled on the floor, useless now.
“I’ll fix this,” Chuck whispered, even though he had no idea how.
Minutes passed. Then the door opened again.
Brandon emerged—but it wasn’t the same Brandon who had walked in.
He was taller, broader. His arms bulged with muscle that hadn’t been there before, thick veins snaking down his forearms. His black hair was shorter, cropped aggressively close to his scalp. His shirt barely fit, the seams straining against his newly expanded frame. His jawline was sharp, exaggerated in a way that made him look almost cartoonishly masculine.
His brown eyes, once sharp and playful, now had a dull, almost vacant look.
Brandon took a step forward, and Chuck saw the way his shoulders rolled unnaturally, the sheer mass of his upper body throwing off his movement.
Chuck’s stomach turned. This wasn’t Brandon anymore.
The woman in white announced, “Brandon Hale has been designated as an enhanced athlete.”
Brandon cracked his knuckles, grinning wide. “Hell yeah.” His voice was deeper now, thicker, like it had been pumped full of testosterone. He turned to Chuck, flexing. “Bro, this is sick. I feel awesome.”
Chuck recoiled. This wasn’t right. Brandon had always been thin, wiry—his energy came from wit, not brute strength. This new version of him was… different.
Too different.
Ryan let out a soft whimper from his spot on the floor.
Chuck’s pulse pounded in his ears. He was the last one.
The woman turned to him. “Chuck Miller.”
His entire body locked up.
This was it. His turn.
His feet felt like lead as he walked forward.
Inside the examination room, he sat in the cold chair as they scanned his wrist.
“Charles Miller,” the woman said, scanning the screen. “Designation confirmed.”
Chuck’s hands tightened on the armrests. “And?”
She glanced at him. “You are regressing.”
His breath hitched.
Then it started.
A sharp dizziness hit him first, his vision swimming. His body tingled, his limbs growing numb. Then he felt it—the shrinking, the compression. His clothes grew looser as his legs pulled inward, his feet no longer touching the floor. His hands—his hands were smaller now, the callouses smoothing away.
His voice cracked as he gasped. “Wait—no, I—”
His vocal cords tightened. His voice went high, cracking awkwardly before settling into something soft, something unmistakably prepubescent.
He looked down. His arms were thin, childlike. His fingers—tiny, delicate. His legs barely dangled over the chair. His shoes had fallen off, too big for his new feet.
He was small.
Too small.
A mirror sat on the opposite wall. He turned his head slowly, fear curling deep in his stomach.
A boy stared back.
Not a man. Not even a teenager.
A child.
His red hair was shorter now, messier. His freckles, once subtle, were more prominent on his now rounder, softer face. His green eyes were wide, filled with a horrifying realization.
He had been stripped of everything.
No adulthood. No independence.
Just a kid.
He let out a shaky breath, his tiny chest rising and falling too fast.
The woman’s voice was flat, clinical. “Charles Miller has been designated for regression.”
His breath came in short gasps. He shook his head, panic setting in. “No—no, please—”
But it was too late.
His feet barely reached the floor as he sat there, trembling.
He had been changed.
And there was no going back.