Matt squinted at the ticket in his hand as he stood beneath the glow of the departure screens. His eyes scanned the small print:
Flight 882 – Tokyo Haneda – Gate 23 – Boarding: 11:40 AM
“Tokyo?” he muttered, eyebrows raised. “Well… I’ve never been. Could be cool.”
He made his way toward the gate, the press of the crowd oddly guiding him along like a tide. Every now and then he glanced down at the ticket, still half-expecting security to stop him, but nobody batted an eye. He was cleared, seated in a window seat, and sipping a ginger ale before he even had time to reconsider.
The moment the plane left the ground, a wave of fatigue came over him. The hum of the engines lulled him into a gentle trance. The cabin lights dimmed as the long-haul flight settled in.
Matt blinked slowly, the lights above flickering briefly. He rubbed his eyes. Something felt… off.
His fingers brushed against his cheeks—they felt rougher than usual. He paused. His skin didn’t feel like it usually did. He got up and stumbled toward the lavatory, swaying as the plane gently rocked. Locking the door behind him, he looked into the mirror—and froze.
His jaw looked… wider. His chin had grown a faint layer of stubble, darker and coarser than what he could usually manage. He reached up in disbelief, brushing it with his fingertips. His cheekbones seemed flatter, rounder. His eyes looked… deeper somehow. More tired. More mature.
“Jet lag?” he mumbled in the mirror, though his voice cracked in a way he didn’t recognize—it was just slightly deeper, slightly huskier.
When he got back to his seat, he reclined and dozed off again, the hum of the engine soothing him. As he slept, his body subtly adjusted under the airplane blanket.
His belly, once flat and youthful, pushed forward slowly. His shirt tightened around the midsection, revealing a spreading pudginess. He shifted in his seat, snoring quietly, unaware of the way his legs now sat slightly farther apart to accommodate his thickening thighs. Black hairs emerged along his forearms, darker and coarser than before. His hands—larger, rougher—rested on his expanding stomach.
Somewhere in the haze of sleep, he dreamed in Japanese.
When Matt woke up, there was a strange warmth beneath his arms. He scratched lazily at his underarm and paused—his fingers sank into a surprisingly thick tuft of coarse black hair. He yanked his hand away and stared. His fingernails were broader. His wrist was thicker, dusted in dark hair. He turned his gaze downward. His belly pushed firmly against his seatbelt now, peeking slightly from beneath his lifted shirt. It was covered in black curls of chest hair.
His mind began to race, but oddly enough… it wasn’t racing in English anymore. Somewhere deep inside, the words felt foreign—distant. A voice in his head muttered: 落ち着け… 大丈夫だ… ("Calm down… it’s okay…") But he hadn’t meant to think in Japanese.
The flight attendant appeared. “Mr. Sato, would you like a warm towel before landing?”
Matt blinked. “I’m not—” he began, but his tongue felt awkward forming the words. His voice came out thickly accented, deeper than he remembered.
She smiled and bowed. “You’ve been asleep a long time. Welcome back.”
He turned toward the window, seeing the sprawl of Tokyo below as the plane began its descent. The neon buzz of the city shimmered on the horizon, and he felt a strange tug in his chest. A sense of nostalgia… of coming home.
Even though he’d never been here before.
As the plane landed and taxied toward the terminal, he shifted in his seat. His pants were now ill-fitting, riding low on a newly heavy waist. His shirt had risen up, exposing his belly. The flight attendant gave him a second look, then smiled as if recognizing him. He checked his ID wallet—somehow it was in his pocket—and sure enough, it said:
Sato Kenji – Age 45 – Tokyo Resident
His hands trembled slightly as he closed the wallet, but he couldn't deny the way the name looked right. Felt right.
Matt—no, Kenji now—stood up, stretching. His back cracked like an older man’s. He scratched his hairy belly absentmindedly, then exited the plane. His new shoes, worn and familiar, clicked firmly against the floor.
He no longer remembered what had brought him here. Just that this was where he lived. Where he worked. He had errands to run, people to see. And Tokyo wasn’t going to wait.