The house was silent when Sam got home — silent in that heavy, tired way where even the air didn’t want to move. A single strip of light came through the dirty kitchen blinds, dust swirling like tiny ghosts. His mom wasn’t home yet. Wouldn’t be for hours. Second shift at the diner, then night cleaning at the community center. Her coat still hung limp by the door like a sad flag.
Sam dropped his backpack by the couch and sank into the threadbare cushion. The medallion still hung around his neck, cool against his chest.
He hadn’t told anyone about it. He didn’t even really know what to say about it. It didn’t hum or glow or whisper like things in books. It was just there. But somehow… it felt like it was waiting.
He unzipped his gym bag, mostly just out of boredom. Sam never changed for gym — not that anyone wanted him on their team. But sometimes, extra clothes ended up there. Discarded stuff from the school’s chaotic lost and found corner, or gym class hand-me-downs that got passed around like dirty secrets.
Today, though, something unexpected sat folded inside: a red T-shirt and a pair of black mesh gym shorts — too clean, too fresh, like they didn’t belong to someone who forgot them.
There was a name tag inside the shirt, faded but unmistakable:
Jo Tanner.
Sam stared.
Jo.
Every inch of his body clenched up like it recognized the name on a primal level. Jo Tanner was everything Sam hated. Confident. Loud. Athletic. A hero to the other kids. A ghost-punch to Sam’s ribs in the hall. His smile was all teeth and insincerity — the kind that made teachers adore him while Sam stewed in his own invisibility.
Sam swallowed, his throat suddenly dry.
Curiosity itched like ants on skin. The medallion pressed lightly on his chest, almost warm now.
“I shouldn’t,” he mumbled, but even as he said it, his hand reached for the red shirt.
The second his fingers brushed the fabric, the medallion pulsed like a heartbeat. Then—
Pain.
A sharp stab shot up his spine, clean and electric. He gasped and stumbled back from the bag, grabbing at his sides. His knees hit the floor hard. His skin prickled, muscles twitching underneath like worms beneath the earth.
“Ah—what the hell?!” Sam clutched his chest.
His breath came in hot gasps as heat pooled in his bones. He watched in horror as his arms thinned, then lengthened. His skin darkened by a few shades, tanning before his eyes, freckles dotting across his shoulders like paint splatter.
His ribs stretched. His legs cramped as they grew longer, then thinned out with lean, compact muscle. He felt his hair sliding down his neck, thickening, brushing his collarbone.
“No. No no no—”
His glasses clattered to the floor. He reached for them, but the world was suddenly sharp. Too sharp. He didn’t need them.
His fingers — longer now, knuckles bruised and scraped from years of playground ball — touched his face. It wasn’t his. The jaw was smooth, firm. The nose: different. The lips: fuller, curved into a mouth that had spat insults at him just yesterday.
He crawled into the hallway, dragging himself toward the bathroom mirror like a wounded animal. His shorts, the only thing he had on now, were too tight — riding up on thighs he didn’t recognize.
He stood, trembling, and turned the light on.
Jo Tanner stared back at him.
Not like in a dream. Not like in a costume. This wasn’t a prank or a daydream or a lookalike reflection. It was him.
His skin.
His face.
His body.
The freckles. The shoulder-length shaggy blonde hair. The cocky smirk trying to pull at his mouth even as he panicked.
Sam took a step back.
“No, no, no—” He touched the mirror. The glass was cold. The boy looking back touched it too. He even blinked the same way Jo did — that half-lazy, arrogant flicker.
“Jo,” he whispered. His own voice was gone — replaced by something deeper, steadier, practiced. Even that had changed.
He backed up until he hit the bathtub, the room spinning. His whole body felt… wrong. Like he was wearing a costume made of muscle and confidence. But it wasn’t fake. He could feel the way Jo’s chest rose and fell with breath. The curve of Jo’s calves. The tightness of his shoulders. The compact energy humming under the skin.
And the worst part?
It felt good.
That was the part Sam couldn’t process. He hated Jo. He hated everything he stood for. But now that Sam was him…
The world didn’t feel heavy. His bones didn’t ache. He didn’t feel afraid of walking back into school tomorrow. His spine didn’t curl in on itself like it used to. Standing tall was effortless.
He wanted to scream.
He grabbed the medallion, yanking it from around his neck. But the moment it left his body—
The transformation paused.
He stood there, halfway caught. A moment passed. Then another. Still Jo.
“Fix it,” he said. “Fix it, fix it—”
He slammed the medallion on the sink, breathing hard. It didn't glow. It didn’t whisper answers. It just sat there. Heavy. Silent. Watching.
He dropped to the floor again, clutching his legs. He was Jo. He had Jo’s stupid face. Jo’s perfect bones. Jo’s lucky, popular, golden-boy life—and it felt like the universe had finally noticed him.
And it felt wrong.
He wanted out. But a deep, sick whisper in the back of his mind asked: