The evening air was cool, carrying with it the smell of rain-soaked asphalt and faint cigarette smoke from the convenience store at the corner. Jackson adjusted the strap of his office bag, sighing at the weight pressing against his shoulder. Another day wasted in paperwork, another twelve hours gone to a company that didn't even bother to remember his name. The neon lights flickered along the street as he walked home, but his mind was elsewhere.
For some reason, his thoughts had drifted back to those high school days—when he and Jayson used to cut class, slip away unnoticed, and wander the city like idiots who thought they were invincible. God, those evenings were the only time life felt alive, Jackson thought, the faintest curve tugging at his lips. He could almost hear Jayson's voice again, loud, careless, full of energy. That kind of energy was gone now—Jayson had disappeared from his life years ago, like smoke slipping through open fingers.
The sound of his own footsteps filled the silence of the narrow street as his apartment building came into view. He was half-asleep already, his body on autopilot. But then—there was someone standing in front of the entrance.
A girl.
Her figure was lit faintly by the yellow glow of the streetlight, shadows falling against the smooth curves of her body. Her hair was long—reaching past her shoulders, the strands carrying a faint violet shimmer like twilight woven into silk. Her skin looked too pale under the light, like porcelain kissed by moonlight. And those legs—long, feminine, almost unreal in their elegance—crossed lightly as she leaned against the railing, waiting.
Jackson slowed down, blinking, heart tripping in confusion. What the hell? Did I get off at the wrong building?
She lifted her head then. Their eyes met. Hers were a piercing purple, so sharp they almost pinned him in place. And she smiled. A playful, mischievous curve of her lips, as if she had been waiting just for him.
"Hey," she said lightly, voice laced with a teasing rhythm. "How's it going?"
Jackson stopped dead in his tracks. That voice. The blood drained from his face. His mouth opened, but nothing came out. His brain screamed impossible. Because beneath that silky, feminine tone—he knew it. He knew it too well.
"…Jayson?" His voice cracked.
Her expression widened into a grin. "Took you long enough."
Jackson's body locked up. Long violet hair. Delicate lashes that curled like they were drawn by an artist's pen. Slender waist, curves beneath the thin blouse, the faint outline of breasts pressing against fabric—so painfully, obviously female. Not even androgynous. This was no illusion. This was a woman.
And yet. That grin. That voice. Those damn words. It was Jayson.
Jackson's heart pounded. His breath grew uneven. "No… no f***ing way. What kind of sick joke is this?"
She tilted her head, pouting just slightly, her hair swaying with the motion. "Why are you staring so much? You don't believe me?"
His throat went dry. "You… You can't be Jayson. Jayson was… a guy. Broad shoulders, scruffy stubble, looked like crap half the time. You… you don't match even one damn trait."
Her smile widened into a smirk, as if she'd been waiting for that exact line. "Oh really?" she said, stepping closer, the faint click of her heels sharp in the silence. "Then let's test it. Want me to prove it?"
Jackson stumbled back a half-step, his back brushing against the cold metal of the railing. Her perfume was faint, sweet, unfamiliar. His heart kicked violently against his ribs.
"Fine," she whispered, leaning in just enough for him to feel the warmth of her breath against his ear. "Major: Economics. Favorite game? Wuthering Waves. Website I check every night?" Her lips curved, sultry, mocking. "Pnhub. XN p**n. Don't act so innocent—you know I told you before."
Jackson's eyes widened in horror.
"And my favorite stars?" she continued, drawing out each word as if savoring his disbelief. "Johnny S*in. Mia Kha**a. Want me to keep going?"
His stomach dropped. Every word stabbed into his chest like ice. She wasn't wrong. These were things only Jayson would know. But the face in front of him, the body pressing closer, the violet hair brushing against his cheek—was anything but Jayson.
Jackson's knees almost buckled. He forced himself to step back, hitting the wall beside the apartment entrance. "This… this isn't real. This is some kind of nightmare."
Her laughter rang, soft and melodic, but still carrying that old mocking edge. "Nightmare?" she asked, leaning back just enough for their eyes to meet again. Her purple gaze glowed in the dim light. "Or maybe…" she whispered, lips curling upward. "…your dream come true?"
Jackson's chest burned, confusion and fear twisting together with something he didn't want to name. His mind screamed this is wrong, but his body felt the opposite—the faint stir of heat crawling up his spine as her eyes refused to let him escape. This wasn't Jayson anymore. This was Angela. And in that moment, Jackson realized—his life had just been rewritten.Jackson's thoughts raced as he stared at Angela. He clenched his fists, veins showing on his arms. "Hey… what the hell did you do with your body?" His voice cracked with disbelief, rage, and something he didn't want to admit—fear.
Angela lowered her eyes, her long violet lashes trembling as if they could barely hold back her emotions. "I… got into an accident."
Jackson froze. "Accident? Don't mess with me, Jayson—"
Angela cut him off, her voice small but sharp. "Don't call me that. It's… Angela now."
The name lingered in the air, unfamiliar yet soft, sliding into Jackson's ears like forbidden temptation.
Angela's lips quivered as she continued, "I… I saved my life, but… I lost my… balls. That's why…"
Her voice cracked. The last words dissolved into the silence of the room, leaving Jackson's chest pounding.
He grabbed her by the shoulders, almost shaking her. "Why the hell didn't you call me when this happened?! You're my only best friend. If something happens to you—who will be my buddy?"
Angela flinched under his grip, her delicate shoulders fragile under his strong hands. Her lips trembled, her breath hitched. "S-stop it…! You're… hurting me…" she whispered.
The sight broke Jackson's rage instantly. His chest sank like a stone into cold water.
"Oh…" He loosened his grip at once, guilt flooding his face. "Damn it… sorry, my bad…"
Angela rubbed her arms gently, trying to hide the redness where he had held her too tight. For a moment, the room was only filled with the sound of her shaky breath.
They sat down together on the worn-out sofa. Jackson leaned back, rubbing his temples, muttering, "I can't believe this… you… like this…"
But then, his eyes flicked toward Angela. Her flushed cheeks. Her delicate body, pressed nervously against the cushion. Her hair shimmered with a faint purple under the faint light. Her breathing uneven. It was too much.
Jackson's heart thundered against his ribs. He felt something burning in his chest—confusion, guilt, desire all mixed into one unbearable storm. He looked away, trying to catch his breath.
Angela's fingers twisted the hem of her skirt nervously. She didn't look at him, but he could see the heat rising to her cheeks.
And then—a sound slipped out. A trembling, stifled, almost embarrassing noise.
"Uuuuuhhhhhhhhhh…."
Jackson turned instantly, eyes wide.
Angela had both her hands pressed against her chest, her face crimson, her breath shallow. "M-my heart…" she gasped, as though it was betraying her.
Jackson's own chest tightened. He leaned forward quickly. "Hey, Angela, are you okay?!"
Her violet eyes lifted slowly, shimmering with something he couldn't read—fear, longing, maybe both.
For a split second, the world froze.
Jackson's brain screamed: That's my bro. That's Angela. That's—
But his heart answered differently.
The apartment smelled faintly of dust and cleaning products as Jackson stepped in, exhausted from the long commute. He hadn't expected to spend his evening scrubbing floors, wiping counters, and rearranging his life around someone else—but Angela, standing in the middle of the living room with a broom in her hand, looked far too much like a goddess for him to mind.
"Hey, why this much books and videos, you horney brat? Don't you feel shame, Jayson?" she asked, tilting her head, eyes gleaming mischievously.
Jackson froze mid-step, staring at the pile of erotic magazines and old video tapes stacked neatly on a shelf. His face went from exhaustion to pure panic. "Just… take the box and place it in the store room… stressed face… you have legs and hands, why don't you do it yourself, Angela?"
Angela laughed softly, the sound brushing against him like silk. "I know if I ask, you'd be able to do it… just like when we were kids."
Jackson's mind flashed back: the old Jayson, their youthful arguments, the same stubborn streak, the same playful teasing. Somethings never change, he thought, letting out a quiet sigh.
Reaching for the box, he felt something skitter across his fingers. A shriek tore from his throat as a cockroach crawled out. He jumped back, flailing, and Angela tilted her head, eyebrow raised, teasing. "What is that scream…?"
Her laughter, soft and melodic, calmed him slightly, and soon they were both laughing, the tension easing from the room. Despite the teasing, Jackson couldn't ignore the subtle flutter in his chest. Angela—his once-boy best friend—was now undeniably feminine. Every movement, every gesture carried a delicate grace he hadn't been prepared for.
The rest of the chores passed in relative quiet, punctuated by small moments that made his pulse quicken. Angela picked up a shirt, her long hair brushing her shoulders, the curve of her neck catching the soft light from the window. She folded clothes meticulously, and every so often, she glanced at him, offering a small, knowing smile. Jackson tried not to stare, but he couldn't help noticing the way her body moved, the subtle sway in her hips, the delicate grace of her hands.
As evening settled, Angela