It started with a flyer slipped through my door. Glossy paper, pristine font, and the kind of minimalist design that immediately screamed, "expensive, but worth it." On the front, in bold black letters: The New You Is Just One Click Away.

I should've thrown it out. But I didn't.

I was sitting at my desk, staring at my reflection in the laptop screen as the page loaded. My face looked tired, older than thirty-three. I'd spent the last hour scrolling through everyone else's lives on social media, and somehow, without realizing it, had convinced myself that this flyer—this thing—might be the answer. Maybe it was the lighting or the way the reflection warped slightly on the screen, but I looked … wrong. Sagging. Out of place in a world that had moved on.

The site popped up, sleek and clean like the flyer. "Redefine Yourself" was written across the top in thin letters. Below that, a button: "Begin Your Journey."

I clicked.

It started innocuously enough. Questions. Simple ones. Name, age, location. Then more personal: What do you want to change? When did you last feel satisfied with yourself? Do you ever wonder what life would be like if you could just be someone else?

I hesitated at that one. I don't know why. Everyone wonders that, don't they? I filled it in anyway. All the time.

The next question was more unnerving: Do you trust us? It sat there, bold and accusatory. Like it was judging me. Testing me.

I hovered over the box, trying to ignore the anxious buzz in my chest, and typed "Yes."

Within moments, the site responded with a congratulatory message. "Congratulations, you're a perfect candidate for our program! We'll handle the rest."

There was no more information, no contract to sign, no payment plan. It felt like a scam, but that creeping curiosity—the part of me that was sick of feeling hollow, unsatisfied—made me linger. I closed the browser and went to bed.

The next morning, I woke up different.

I don't mean different like a fresh haircut or a new pair of shoes. I mean different. When I looked in the mirror, I saw myself, but I wasn't me. My face was … sharper. Younger, somehow. My eyes were clearer, like I'd had ten hours of sleep when I knew I'd only had five. My skin was smoother. More symmetrical. Subtle, but there.

At first, I thought it was a trick of the light. Maybe I was just imagining it. But when I went out that day, people treated me differently. The barista smiled at me like I was someone important. A guy on the subway gave up his seat without a word. My boss, who usually barely acknowledged my existence, asked if I wanted to grab lunch. It was a small shift, but undeniable.

I couldn't stop thinking about the website. It hadn't asked me for money. It hadn't explained what it was going to do. It just … did it.

Days passed, and the changes kept coming. Subtle at first, barely noticeable. My posture improved. My voice was clearer, more confident. My inbox filled with social invites, people I hadn't spoken to in years suddenly wanting to reconnect. I wasn't just part of the background anymore—I was there, in a way I hadn't been before.

Then the physical changes began.

I woke up one morning and my hair was thicker. I'd been balding slowly since my late twenties, but now it was like I'd never lost a strand. My jawline was sharper, the bags under my eyes were gone. It wasn't just aging in reverse—it was like the program knew exactly what I wanted, what I needed to be the best version of myself, and it was giving it to me, piece by piece.

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People noticed. Friends, coworkers, strangers on the street—they all noticed. Some were subtle about it, others outright asked me what I was doing, if I'd had surgery, if I was on some kind of miracle drug. I didn't know what to tell them.

Every day, I checked the site. But there were no new messages, no updates. Just the same clean interface and the words "We'll handle the rest."

A few months in, I hit a snag. I was brushing my teeth one morning when I noticed something. My teeth were whiter, straighter. Perfect, like they'd been digitally retouched. But as I looked closer, I realized they didn't feel like my teeth anymore. They were too smooth, too uniform, like they'd been replaced overnight. I ran my tongue over them, and a cold, foreign sensation crept through my jaw.

Then, one day, I found a scar. A small, faint line behind my ear, barely visible. Like an incision that had healed long ago. But I'd never had surgery. At least, not that I could remember.

I went back to the website, desperate for answers. But when I tried to log in, the site was gone. The URL didn't exist anymore. No trace of it. Not in my history, not in my bookmarks. Like it had never been there at all.

I started to panic. Tried calling my doctor, but when they ran tests, they said I was in perfect health. Too perfect. They marvelled at my bone density, my heart rate, my cholesterol levels. It was like I'd become an optimized version of a human being. But the changes kept coming.

I woke up one morning to find my reflection staring back at me with a face that wasn't quite mine anymore. My eyes were larger, more symmetrical. My skin, flawless to the point of looking unnatural, like porcelain. I barely recognized myself.

People still treated me like I was perfect, like I was something to admire. But it felt wrong now. Like I was wearing someone else's skin, like I'd been moulded into this thing that everyone wanted, but no one knew.

A month later, I stopped sleeping. It wasn't that I didn't want to—it was that I couldn't. My body didn't need it anymore. I'd lie in bed, staring at the ceiling for hours, wide awake, wondering when the next change would come.

That's when the glitches started.

Sometimes, I'd catch my reflection lagging, just for a second. My face would freeze in the mirror, my smile stuck, like a bad video feed. My body moved fine, but my reflection stayed still, out of sync. Other times, I'd hear voices, faint and mechanical, like an old radio transmission breaking through static.

The worst part? No one else seemed to notice. Not my friends, not my family. To them, I was perfect. Flawless. Exactly what I'd always wanted to be.

But it wasn't me anymore.

I tried everything. I deleted my social media, cut myself off from everyone, hoping to break whatever connection had been made. But it didn't matter. The changes kept coming. I could feel it now—the presence inside me, growing, replacing me bit by bit.

I wasn't the same person anymore.

I didn't just want to be someone else.

I was someone else.