Liam’s body trembled as the invisible force held him in place. It was as if invisible vines had wound around his limbs, locking him upright, eyes fixed ahead. A tingling warmth began to rise in his feet, like he had stepped into a shallow pool of warm water—only the sensation was spreading upward.
His shoes suddenly popped open at the seams, his toes bursting out as they stretched, thickened, and darkened in hue. His toenails grew out slightly, becoming earthy and natural looking. “What the hell—” Liam stammered, but the words caught in his throat.
The feeling crept higher—up his legs, which began to thicken in real time, shedding their pale, smooth quality and becoming lightly tanned and dusted in coarse, sun-bleached hair. His thin calves plumped with subtle strength. His knees ached as they widened, joints rearranging. He could feel the earth beneath him more now, like he was grounding with the planet itself.
His jeans began to shift, seams unraveling as if dissolving into thread and dust, and in their place came loose, tie-dye patterned pants. They hung low on his hips, cinched by a hemp cord, and fluttered with every breath he took. The fabric was worn and soft, infused with a faint scent of sandalwood and patchouli.
“W-What am I turning into?” Liam gasped, heart racing. Evelyn beamed at him from the podium.
“Into someone more in tune with the vibrations of this city,” she said with a mysterious softness. “A spirit who sees past the illusions of modern life. Someone real. Meet Hank Jenkins.”
As she said the name, a wave of heat pulsed through Liam’s abdomen. His flat stomach pushed forward with a sloshy lurch, growing into a rounded, soft belly that tugged his shirt upwards. Except—his shirt was gone now. In its place, he wore a handwoven cotton vest with frayed edges, open in front to expose the growing curve of his now-middled-aged torso. His nipples darkened and shifted positions slightly as his chest softened and broadened—not toned, but sturdy and doughy, with a light layer of dark chest hair beginning to peek out.
Liam wheezed in panic, feeling the weight settle onto his body. His hands trembled, the bones stretching, fingers thickening, palms callousing with years of crafting, drumming, and open-handed gestures. Rings now adorned three of his fingers, each one a different mismatched stone.
“Stop it—stop it please,” he pleaded, his voice cracking.
“Oh, you won’t be saying that for much longer,” Evelyn replied, “Not once your mind starts to match the man you’re becoming.”
Indeed, his voice was already deepening—filling out with a slow, mellow drawl. He sounded like he’d smoked for a few decades, not in a harmful way, but like a man who spoke in rhythm with the wind. He could feel the back of his throat changing—his vowels softening, his cadence loosening.
His face began to tingle.
The sharp jawline of a teenage boy began to blur and sag slightly, rounding out into jowls and a gentle double chin. His skin roughened with sun-kissed lines. Cheeks bloated out with an easy-going softness. His nose broadened, and his lips grew fuller, now half-curled into a sleepy, amused smile. A shaggy, dark beard was pushing out of his skin as his hair grew longer, curlier, wilder—frizzing into a halo of dark brown and gray strands tied loosely behind with a string.
A pair of round, wire-rimmed glasses appeared on the bridge of his nose, and a small woven satchel swung into place across his chest, filled with incense, a spiral-bound poetry journal, and a busker’s harmonica.
Hank blinked slowly. “Far out,” he muttered in a gravelly baritone.
“Welcome back, Subject 3125,” Evelyn said warmly. “Or should I say… Hank Jenkins. Resident of the East Village, poet laureate of 2nd Avenue, street musician, part-time crystal healer. Sound familiar yet?”
Hank furrowed his brow, scratching at his thick beard. “Liam… Liam… that name’s got some heavy vibrations, man. But it ain’t me.” He chuckled, a full-bodied sound that echoed around the chamber. “I’m Hank. Always been Hank. Right?”
Jeremy appeared by his side now, slapping a hand on Hank’s soft back. “You’re gonna love your new life, man. Rent-free loft above a record store, lifetime supply of yerba mate, and you’ve got a community drum circle every Sunday. Oh—and Evelyn pulled some strings. You’re playing a festival in Prospect Park next weekend.”
“Right on,” Hank murmured, lifting a hand in a lazy peace sign. “This… this feels right.”
Somewhere deep down, a flicker of fear still echoed, like a forgotten whisper of the boy Liam used to be. But the warmth in his belly and the calm in his chest silenced it like a warm summer breeze.
Evelyn leaned over her laptop one final time, murmuring, “Synchronization complete.”
And just like that, Liam Albright was gone.
Hank Jenkins stepped forward, barefoot, belly swinging with every step, and opened the door to the New York night like it was his kingdom.