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Bertha Dreessen adjusted her reflection in the smudged surface of the control panel, tugging lightly at the end of her auburn ponytail. It was neat, pulled back tight, and she gave it a once-over before smoothing her sleeves. Her lab coat—mandatory—was clean and fitted well enough to suggest an eye for detail. Beneath it, a cream blouse tucked into dark green slacks played off subtle flair—her belt was a skinny blush patent leather, and her flats had a faint sheen, toe-tipped in gold. Gold stud earrings and a slim watch added polish. Not flashy, but considered. A whisper of fashionista threaded through her look, just enough to feel intentional.

At eighteen, Bertha had left high school early. She didn’t see the point in finishing when she’d already landed a job at The Changegrounds: Free Trial—a small, suburban branch of a much bigger operation downtown. The real Changegrounds was all glass walls and designer branding. This one was tucked into a forgettable strip mall next to a dry cleaner. But it worked. They offered free one-time alterations, the bait for customers who might return for something permanent. Reality editing wasn’t new anymore, but it was still mysterious—powered by odd-looking crystal shards sealed behind thick panels.

Bertha didn’t claim to understand how it all worked. She just had to make it sound appealing.

A chime rang from the front. She stood, adjusted her coat again, and stepped into the waiting room.

“Welcome to The Changegrounds: Free Trial,” she said, clipboard in hand. “Let me check—Nicolle Taylor and Camille Potts?”

The taller of the two women gave a quick nod. “Yes. That’s us.”

Camille was thirty-three, clearly younger than her cousin but dressed with more edge: dark lipstick, a leather crossbody bag, and a cropped wool jacket over a graphic tee. She looked around the waiting room with faint amusement, as if half-expecting to find cameras hidden in the potted plants.

Bertha turned to Nicolle. Mid-forties, modestly dressed in a pale blue button-down and black jeans. Her hair was blonde, shoulder-length, pulled back with a clip. She wore minimal makeup. A tote bag hung from one shoulder, jangling slightly with every step.

“I’m excited,” Nicolle said, her voice easygoing, a little too loud. “I mean, if it can really do what my friend said it can do, that’s wild. She said she felt like a different person after.”

Bertha offered a brief smile and led them down the corridor. The hallway lights flickered overhead. Nicolle chatted as they walked—about her daughter, about how weird the strip mall parking lot was. Camille mostly stayed quiet, arms crossed, her heeled boots clicking softly.

Inside the Alteration Room, Bertha gestured for Nicolle to step inside the chamber and closed the door behind her. Across the hall, in the Command Room, she brought the system online. The monitors flickered to life. Nicolle’s profile loaded: forty-one, works in sales, one daughter—seventeen, named Judy. Married eighteen years. Pretty average.

Camille peered over Bertha’s shoulder, uninvited. “So… what’s the trick?”

“Trial gives you ten free changes,” Bertha said. “You can use as many or as few as you like. Looks, personality, behavior, even memories. They all hold as long as she’s inside the chamber. Once she’s out, they become permanent unless overwritten.”

Camille cocked a brow. “I told her to try something fun. She’s always in a cardigan. Always.”

Bertha tilted her head, considering. “Let’s go somewhere unexpected, then. Not just fun. Glamorous. Let’s make her someone people notice.”

Camille leaned in, intrigued. “Like what?”

Bertha’s fingers hovered over the interface. “She married last year—high society. Some business mogul, barely home. She lives in penthouses and hotels. Has a stylist on speed dial. The kind of woman who wears fragrance names like armor and has her own table at five different rooftop lounges. Let’s say she used to be a model, then pivoted to philanthropy. Hosts galas. Has impeccable taste.”

Camille’s grin widened. “Oh, hell yes. Do it.”

Bertha keyed in the sequence, adjusting not just style but history, presence, bearing. She hit *execute*.

The chamber shimmered.

When it cleared, Nicolle stood effortlessly poised, as if she'd merely paused in the middle of an editorial shoot. Gone were the jeans and the tote bag. In their place: a sleek black long-sleeved dress with a plunging neckline, tailored to perfection. Around her neck hung a bold, circular pendant—deep obsidian ringed in gold, suspended by a leather and metal choker that exuded luxury without excess. Her hair had deepened into a rich copper-red, perfectly straight, flowing over one shoulder like liquid flame.

Her makeup was artful: sculpted cheekbones, deep matte lipstick, eyes lined in a precise cat flick. A quiet confidence radiated from her, the kind that didn’t need to speak to command attention. She looked expensive.

But it wasn’t just the clothes. Her posture had changed entirely—spine straight, chin slightly lifted, one manicured hand resting lightly at her waist. She looked like she belonged in a glowing elevator ascending into a rooftop launch party with ice sculptures and discreet security.

Bertha smiled faintly, stepping back. “Nicolle married Elliott Royston last September. He's the Royston Group—the hotels, the jet charter line, the mineral water brand. They met at a wellness retreat in Iceland. She’s been on the covers of four magazines since spring. Vogue did a spread in March titled *Modern Grace: The New Face of Philanthropy*.”

Memories shifted like falling cards. Nicolle had never worked in sales. She’d been a boutique model in her twenties, then started a foundation for arts education. Judy grew up attending museum benefits, learning to shake hands firmly, to smile without baring too much.

Camille blinked. “She doesn’t even look like herself.”

Bertha nodded, pleased. “She has standing reservations in Monaco and Marrakech. Her wine guy won’t return your call unless you drop her name. She’s an icon in three industries—none of which she’s worked in directly. It’s all about influence.”

In the chamber, Nicolle adjusted a strand of hair with elegant precision, then turned her head toward the observation window. Her gaze was calm, almost bored, with just the faintest edge of amusement—as though she knew exactly how much power she held.

Bertha clicked her pen against the clipboard. “Nine changes left,” she said, voice light. “Want to keep going?”