Friday, August 29th, 2042, Home of the Porter Family, Maywood Park, Oregon.

The girl descended the stairs with Lucia, each step light and measured. The air in the house was too still, thick with anticipation. Her bare feet brushed against the cool wooden steps, tail twitching behind her in nervous agitation. She adjusted the cardigan around her shoulders, as if it could shield her from what was coming.

Through the narrow window in the front hall, she caught a glimpse of a KOIN 6 News van.

They're still here?

The same channel that had put Ryan's face all over the internet. Their face. The thought made her stomach churn.

Are they watching the house, waiting for us to emerge?

Lucia followed Kaelyn's gaze and noticed the van, too. She muttered a curse under her breath. "Dios mío, they're back?" She folded her arms as she glared out the window. "They didn't do enough damage yesterday? Hungry for more?"

The girl let out a dry, humourless chuckle. She was not thrilled at the prospect of dealing with Chloe again, but it was far from her current concern. The entire world could be live-streaming her life right now, and she would not mind. Not because she wanted the attention—far from it. Unlike the other one, this Kaelyn did not care for the spotlight. She, like Lucia and Megan, knew better.

But despite her aversion, she would let anyone watch because she was preoccupied by something far more important to her. Her gaze flickered toward the front door. Megan was beyond that door, waiting.

She leaned closer, about to glance through the peephole, but hesitated.

Who is she going to see? Me, Kaelyn, or Ryan?

Her heart pounded in her chest. She had been the one who responded to Megan's message not a minute ago. But she had failed to clarify it was her behind the digital keyboard. To Megan's phone, it would simply have appeared as a message from Ryan. From her boyfriend.

She looked down at her herself. At the tank top, skirt and leggings she was currently wearing. Lucia's clothes. If not for the animal traits, she could pass for just another Porter teenager.

Calm down, gatita. With you dressed like this, it should be obvious who you are. She'll know right away. After all, Ryan wouldn't wear those clothes, would he?

Ryan did not respond.

But the silent victory brought the girl little consolation. What if Megan did not immediately recognise her? She came here not for her, but for Ryan? Would she notice who she was? For all the confidence and bravado the other Kaelyn usually projected, Megan seemed to see through her game effortlessly.

The girl let out a long sigh and checked through the peephole. Megan was right there, standing, arms crossed, wearing an impatient frown on her face. And right next to her was an older man she did not recognise. He was taller than Megan, had short blond hair and the same eyes.

She pulled back, puzzled.

Who is this?

Ryan had no idea, either. But then Lucia nudged her. "You ready?"

No, I don't feel ready at all!

As anxious as she was feeling about being seen by Megan, perhaps for the first time, she could tell Ryan was even more alarmed at the prospect. He wanted her to turn Megan away. Or to run and hide. Away from everything and everyone.

We can't delay this forever, cariño.

Kaelyn took a steadying breath and reached for the doorknob. She paused, fingers tightening around the cool metal. Then she pulled the door open.

Megan stood on the front step, arms crossed, brow furrowed, every ounce of her radiating pissed-off energy. Her head immediately turned to face the now-open doorway. The moment their eyes met, Megan's face shifted—just a flicker, a brief moment of something raw and startled beneath the surface.

The girl could tell immediately, with the way Megan's gaze searched her face. She took in every detail. Her unfamiliar, halfway-formed features. The softer cheekbones, the smaller nose, the mismatched gold-and-green eyes. The ears on top of her head twitching at the sound of the creaking door.

Recognition clashed with disbelief. Megan was looking at her. Her frown faded, replaced by something else entirely. A look of sympathy—no. Of pity. Like the girl was some kind of wounded animal.

"…Shit," Megan muttered, blinking like she had just been punched in the gut.

The man standing just behind her frowned slightly and pushed his AR visor up onto his forehead. His tired, skeptical gaze flickered between them, lingering on Kaelyn's ears and tail.

"So it's true," Brent murmured, exhaling. "Christ. I hoped Chloe's instincts would be wrong, for once."

Megan did not even acknowledge his words. She just stepped forward, invading the girl's space without hesitation.

"Ryan." Her voice was sharp, urgent. "Thank God you're okay. You didn't respond to any of my messages until now. You weren't at your apartment—I've been worried sick!"

The girl felt her throat tighten as the entirety of her world crumbled. She had been dreading this. The second Megan had laid eyes on her, she had looked for him. Not her. She still saw Ryan.

She took a step back, her fingers clenched into the fabric of the cardigan. "Megs, I—"

Megan did not wait. She reached out and grabbed Kaelyn's wrist. Not roughly, not aggressively—just firmly. Like she was trying to ground her.

That touch carried so much fear. But also so much love and so much relief. The storm of feelings inside of her mind quickly overwhelmed her. She was at a loss on how to respond.

But that moment of confusion, of doubt, was all it took; Ryan slammed back into the front of their mind like a door being kicked open.

The girl barely had time to react before control slipped through her fingers.

Their body wavered—the way they stood, the way they carried themselves, everything subtly but unmistakably shifting. A sudden stiffness in their shoulders. A tension in their stance.

Ryan sucked in a breath through Kaelyn's nose, almost triumphant.

Megan, you brought me back!

But within seconds, things started to feel… wrong. His body told him just how wrong every fibre of his being felt. His height, his skin, his clothes, his long blonde hair. The feeling of his body being forced into a shape that was not his crushed his spirits immediately.

The cardigan was too soft, and the tank top clung to him in a way that felt wrong. The constricting training bra felt alien, forbidden, and utterly wrong on his body. His tail swished nervously behind him, pulling at the bottom of his spine, reminding him he was not supposed to have a tail in the first place.

This body—which used to be his—was not his body. Not anymore.

Oh, God. Oh, God.

His pulse roared in his ears. His breath stuttered.

Too much. Too much.

The disconnect was unbearable.

The mouth of the man next to him started moving, as if speaking, but Ryan did not hear a single word. His ears buzzed, and time seemed to slow down. Any attempt at moving felt like he was swimming through molasses.

Ryan stumbled backwards, shaking his head in panic and disbelief, as if it could make somehow make things any better.

Megan's grip tightened around the alien wrist, her eyes going wide. He could barely hear what she said, despite being right next to his former body. "Whoa, hey—breathe, okay? Just breathe."

Lucia immediately moved in, hovering at his side. "Hey, what's going on?"

One of Kaelyn's hand crept up, slowly, and trembling up to her chest. Even the sound of drawing in air was not right. It was higher-pitched, lighter, and came in ragged, and far too rapidly; he was hyperventilating.

He squeezed her eyes shut and could feel a cruel presence in his mind, watching, waiting. She was not fighting to reclaim control; she let him have it. He could feel she was taking some satisfaction in his sorry state. And then he heard her mocking voice, cutting through everything else.

See, chico? This is what happens when you push us away. When you refuse to accept the truth. It'll only get worse from here.

Ryan crossed her arms, nails digging into her upper arms' skin. He refused to believe those were his arms—but his nerves disagreed. He clearly felt the pain signals and sting as her fingernails broke skin. "I—I need—"

Megan did not let go. "It's okay. You're okay."

Ryan barked out a laugh, sharp and breathless. "—No, I'm really not!"

The legs holding up felt weak and on the verge of collapse. The world was too bright, too sharp, too real.

Lucia and Megan exchanged a quick, loaded glance—the kind that meant they were communicating without words. His sister turned, shutting the front door before any onlookers could get a single glimpse of what was happening inside.

The man who had entered with her exhaled, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Alright. Someone wanna tell me how bad this situation really is?"

Ryan looked downwards. At Megan's hands. At the wrists she held tightly and refused to let go. No matter how much he wanted to see them as someone else's, his brain kept dismantling his delusion. It insisted these wrists, just like the arms and hands they connected, belonged to him. Still, Ryan was stuck in an infinite loop, presented with evidence, yet refusing to accept the truth.

He swallowed thickly, his tail curling tightly against his leg.

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Lucia turned to the man. "Something's wrong… It looks pretty bad—she was doing fine this morning."

If Ryan's heart had been made of glass, it would have shattered right there and then.

'She'? Lucia, how can you not tell how this is me? I am not the person you spent the morning with!

Ryan did not even register the sound of his parents rushing in; he barely registered anything at all.

The weight of the cardigan on his shoulders was unbearable. The texture of the fabric was suddenly suffocating, clinging to skin like a foreign object. Every inch of him felt wrong, stretched and warped into something out of his nightmare. He worried how much of this life he could still claim as his own.

Somehow, without even thinking—or perhaps guided by Megan—he unsteadily made his way to the living room. His breath hitched as he all but collapsed onto the living room sofa. He pulled a thick blanket over himself, burying his unrecognisable body underneath.

If he could not see it—could not see the proof of how much he had changed—maybe he could pretend, just for a little while, that none of this was real?

"Mijo?" His mother's worried voice called out to him, followed by her footsteps climbing down the stairs at a quick, determined pace. His father followed right behind.

But she stopped as soon as she walked past the front door. "Who are you?" Sarah's voice was ice.

Ryan's heart nearly stopped. It took Ryan a second to realise she was not addressing him, but the man who had entered with Megan.

He barely had the energy to care, so he concentrated what little focus he had left into his new, tiny, and safe space—a prison of his own creation. He just curled further into the couch, pulling the blanket tighter, like a shield. Following his example, her ears pressed flat against her skull. He could not tell if it was from Kaelyn's lingering influence or if he was just instinctively withdrawing from the world.

"Brent. Brent Foster. I work for KOIN 6—"

Unlike him, Ryan's parents were on the offensive. His father's calm but cold voice sharply interrupted the man. "—What do you want?"

The man sighed heavily, like he had expected this outcome. "I get it, I get it. You're pissed—"

"—Pissed?" Sarah repeated, incredulous. "Our son is—" She gestured at Ryan, huddled on the couch, trembling under layers of blankets. Her voice wavered, just slightly. "He's—madre mía, we don't even know what's happening to him."

The man ran a hand down his face. "Believe me, I didn't want this to happen…"

Ryan's father took a step closer and repeated his question. "Why are you here?"

Lucia quickly stepped in between them, hands up in a way to lower the tension. "Okay, let's take a second to breathe before someone throws a punch, yeah?"

Her words were mostly aimed at her father, who appeared on the verge of exploding.

Megan, still standing protectively beside the couch, crossed her arms, scowling at the man. "You should've thought about this before helping Chloe McIntyre blast Ryan's face all over the news, Dad."

The man—her father—winced.

Sarah zeroed in on that detail instantly. "You're her father? And you were part of this?" Her voice was low, furious. "Why did you do it?"

Brent looked miserable. "Sorry, I had no idea who he was at the time… I only learned he was Megan's boyfriend this morning and—"

Ryan heard his mother inhale sharply. A sharp, barely contained, furious breath. "Unbelievable," she muttered. "You only care now because he's connected to your daughter? Not because of what you did to him. Or us, his family?"

Ryan felt like he should react to their conversation. To join in, speak up for himself. This concerned him; they were talking about him. But he was fresh out of spoons—no, he was even out of fucks—to give anymore.

"Look," Brent continued, shifting his weight, his exhaustion clear in every movement, "I know you probably want someone to blame—"

"Oh, you think?" Eduardo snapped.

Brent held up his hands. "I get it, I do! Believe me or not, but I'm here to help you bring the fight to the station. I'm not the guy you need to be yelling at if you want some kind of reparation."

Sarah's reply was quick and to the point. "Then who is?"

Brent reached into his jacket and pulled out a card, and handed it to Sarah with a grim expression. "That's the direct contact details for the team handling problems like this one," he said. "They're the ones who can help protect you, hide you. Think of it as a witness protection program. If you want help, compensation, or even legal action, that's who you want to talk to. My boss will probably fire me if they hear I just handed this card over to you."

Sarah took the card, but the anger did not leave her voice. "You helped put my son in danger," she said coldly. "The least you can do is take responsibility. Or help fix it."

Brent did not argue or respond.

Ryan heard his mother take a deep breath, then another. And then her footsteps approached the couch.

She crouched down, hesitating for only a second before gently placing a hand on Ryan's shoulder through the blanket. "Mijo?" Her voice had softened, but it was tightly wound with worry. "Mi hijo, talk to me."

Ryan curled in on himself. He could not. He would not. Because if he spoke, it would be her voice. And if he moved, he would feel her body.

I'm sorry. I'm not ready...

"Lo siento," he choked out.

His mother's mouth hung open in silence. She reached under the blanket, blindly finding a hand and squeezing it tight. Ryan wanted to recoil. He felt his throat burn, his chest tight with a desperate, helpless kind of grief.

He had no idea what he had apologised for. But it did not matter. Before he could do anything, his mother leaned forward and pressed a kiss to his covered forehead.

She whispered, "Hang on, mijo. We'll get to the bottom of this."

Megan stepped forward, placing a firm hand on Sarah's shoulder. "Señora Porter, please," she said, voice low but insistent. "Let's give him a second to breathe."

His mother hesitated, and Ryan could feel her reluctance in the way her fingers twitched against his, the way her grip lingered just a fraction too long before she let go. "…He shouldn't be alone right now," she whispered.

Megan's jaw clenched, but her voice stayed steady. "—He won't be."

Lucia immediately caught on and turned towards Eduardo and Brent. Placing one hand behind each adult's back, she physically shooed them over. "Come on, you two. Take your very important grown-up talk somewhere else. Dining room—now!"

Ryan watched Eduardo open his mouth to argue, only for Lucia to shut him down with a glare. Despite the difference in their heights, Lucia was clearly not willing to take any bullshit today.

Brent gave one quick look in Ryan's direction, but he was already backing up, hands raised, before Eduardo finally gave a heavy exhale and followed him.

Sarah hesitated for one more heartbeat—one last reluctant glance in Ryan's direction. Then, finally, she let Megan guide her away.

He squeezed his eyes shut and listened to the footsteps as they left the living room. Then he heard their muffled voices in the distance, arguing. But he did not pay any attention to the words.

For a long moment, Ryan neither moved nor breathed. The blanket was too warm—suffocating, even. But he would not—could not—discard it. Not as long as he could feel how wrong every inch of this body felt. And he hated it.

This isn't happening.

If he stayed like this long enough—refused to acknowledge any of it—maybe things would go back to normal. Maybe his whole life could return to normal? Just him, alone, in his basement apartment, getting bored with his games, eating his mother's reheated cooking.

But then Lucia's voice broke the silence. "…Ryan?"

He flinched. She was back. Of course she was. He heard her shifting, standing nearby, lingering.

For a few precious seconds, Ryan remained silent. Then, slowly, he forced his fingers to unclench from the blanket, just enough to peek his face out. Not enough for her to see much. Just his eyes.

And when he finally spoke, his voice was hoarse. Fragile. "…Lu," he whispered. "How could you?"

He saw her stiffening. He swallowed, his throat burning, something raw and ugly twisting in his chest. "How could you do this?" His voice cracked, barely above a whisper. "How could you just—just entertain her? Feed her? Dress her like she belongs here?"

Lucia's lips parted, but no words came. Ryan gasped, his voice cracking under the weight of his emotions. "You didn't even ask how I was doing?" His fingers clenched into the blanket again, trembling. "Have you already given up on me?"

Lucia's expression shattered. "…That's not fair," she whispered.

Ryan let out a weak, bitter laugh. "Isn't it?"

Lucia took a step forward—then stopped. She looked at him, what little she could see from the way he was bundled up. She hesitated, apparently at a loss for words. Which was so unlike her. After a few seconds, she sank onto the armrest of the couch, resting her forearms on her knees, staring at the floor. Neither of them spoke.

Then, softly, Lucia murmured, "I didn't give up on you, Ryan." She exhaled. "…But I also couldn't ignore her."

Ryan's stomach twisted. Lucia shook her head, staring at her hands. "I don't know how to explain it. I don't even know if I understand it. But this morning, you were not there. This girl was." She tilted her head sideways, meeting his eyes. "And she's real."

Ryan felt like he had been punched in the chest. Lucia was not saying this to hurt him. He knew she was not, but God, it hurt anyway.

His vision blurred, his breath stuttering. Lucia looked away again, her voice quieter now. "I don't know what's happening to you, mano. I don't know how to fix it. But I do know that pretending she isn't real isn't going to make this stop."

Ryan wanted to argue. Wanted to say something, anything, to refute it, but no words came. Because deep down, he was terrified she was right. He could not breathe and his sister's words were still hanging in the air, suffocating him.

She's real. She was here. And she isn't just a character. My character.

She's always been more than just a character, chico.

Ryan clenched his teeth so hard his jaw ached, gripping the blanket tighter, as if it could anchor him, as if it could keep him from slipping further away.

And then Megan came back, sat on the opposite side from Lucia, and said a single word. "Ryan."

His name—his name, not theirs. Hearing it from her was steady, grounding.

It was Megan's turn now. Lucia's words had rattled him—but surely Megan would not let him fall apart.

She leaned forward, making sure he could see her, but she did not touch him. She probably could tell just how much her touch—any touch—would upset him right now.

Her eyes searched his face, really looking at him. Not at Kaelyn, but at him. Ryan held his breath.

Megan sees me.

She took a slow breath, then said, "You remember I met her yesterday?"

Ryan stilled, and she nodded, having noticed his reaction carefully. "I talked to Kaelyn. In VR."

Ryan swallowed hard. "Yeah?" His voice came out small.

Megan leaned her arms on her knees, tilting her head slightly. "Yeah. She's a lot, but you already knew that."

A tiny, bitter laugh escaped him before he could stop it. Megan smirked faintly. "There he is."

Ryan blinked. Megan's gaze softened, and her voice followed suit. "Listen. I know you're afraid of losing control to her."

Ryan's fingers clenched around the blanket.

A small, quiet voice resonated inside his mind. One both familiar and seldom heard.

Megan doesn't understand everything.

Ryan shook his head, banishing the thought. Megan understood. She recognised the difference between him and Kaelyn yesterday. She told him she was not as a glitch or a problem to get rid of. Megan had figured this all out faster than he had.

Ryan was both angry and relieved at the same time.

Megan exhaled slowly. "You're not gone, Ry. You're still here."

Ryan shook his head. "For how long?"

Megan's expression did not waver. "For as long as you want to be."

He let out a weak, shaking breath. Lucia's words had made him feel helpless. Megan's words felt like a lifeline. He wanted to believe her.

But he had just spent hours lost in his character's traumatic past, in her body, in her life. And now he was here, wearing a body meant for her, in her clothes Lucia had loaned her.

Ryan felt the sting of tears behind his eyes. "…What about tomorrow? When I'll be even less myself?" he asked in a whisper.

Megan frowned. "We don't have to deal with that until then."

Ryan blinked at her, startled. Megan tilted her head slightly, giving him the look she reserved for those deeper conversations they shared on the rooftops. "Not saying it's not a big deal, Ry," she said. "But try to focus on what's here today. You don't have to figure all of this out right now."

Ryan exhaled sharply.

Megan's right.

He hated that, but he needed to believe her.

She shifted slightly, resting her arms on the edge of the couch. "So for right now, let's focus on just breathing, yeah?"

Ryan let out a shaky breath.

In. Out.

His grip on the blanket loosened just slightly. Megan remained still, waiting. She would not rush him, she was just here for him.

Ryan swallowed. And finally nodded.

Megan just kept watching him, like she was waiting for him to process everything. Then, after a moment, she spoke quietly. "She's not going anywhere, you know?"

Ryan recoiled, but Megan's voice remained steady. "Now that you've opened Pandora's box, there's no closing it anymore. But the box has been there for years."

Ryan's breathing went sharp. His stomach twisted, nausea curling deep inside him. He did not want to hear this, could not hear this. But Megan did not care. "And now?" Her voice softened. "You've just got to learn to live with the thing you've unleashed."

Ryan's fingers twitched violently.

No.

No, no, no.

He drew a shaky breath, and his hands clenched. He wanted to scream, to yell at her to shut up, to stop saying things that felt too true. Because if he admitted she was right—if he let himself really feel it—Then what did it mean for him?

What does it mean for me?

His vision blurred. He curled deeper into the blanket, as if he could disappear. "I don't—" His voice cracked. "I don't want this."

Megan exhaled, shifting her weight. Ryan could see how she wanted to touch him, to comfort him. But he knew if she did, it would only break him faster. And she recognised it, apparently. "…I know," she whispered.

Her quiet acceptance? It was worse than any argument she could have made. Because Megan was not fighting him on this. She was just seeing him.

Ryan swallowed hard. Tears burned at the edges of his vision. He squeezed his eyes shut, his tail curling tightly against his leg, his ears pressing flat against his skull.

He hated how much he could feel both of them, how he could feel everything. But Megan's next words were quieter and softer. "You can't keep pretending she's not real, Ry."

Ryan shuddered. Because pretending? It was exactly what he had been doing for years. His whole damn life.

And now? Now he could not anymore. Because he had carelessly played with the lid of the box and set Kaelyn free.

The world started to spin. Ryan spiralled, and both Megan and Lucia were right there, seeing it. His grip on the blanket was white-knuckled, his breathing uneven, his entire body rejecting itself.

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