Our TG Caption

You take a slow, thoughtful bite of your burger—medium rare, exactly the way you like it—and let your eyes linger on the redhead at the nearby table. Her lipstick matches the shade of her shopping bag, and her laugh rings out like a chime through the hum of the food court. She's beautiful, sure. But more than that, she’s curious. Intrigued by you. Her eyes flick to you for the fourth time in less than a minute.

That’s when the idea settles into your mind.

You reach for your soda, take a sip, and as casually as exhaling, you speak—softly, under your breath. The words are simple, but precise:

“She’s not a stranger. She’s always been mine. My assistant. Loyal. Efficient. Dressed like the role defines her. She’s never met these people in her life.”

You feel the subtle shift—like the mall air got a fraction crisper, like the hum of conversation took a barely noticeable dip and corrected itself. You glance toward her again.

She’s standing now, but not at the same table. No shopping bags at her feet. No friends surrounding her with laughter and stories. Her outfit has changed—a tailored pencil skirt hugs her hips, a silk blouse tucked neatly in. Her hair is swept into a glossy side part, clipped back with precision. Black heels, small but stylish. There's a leather folio in her arms, and she's scanning the food court like she’s searching for someone.

For you.

She spots you and walks briskly toward your booth—every step purposeful. Her heels click on the tile floor with practiced grace. She stops just beside your table and clears her throat gently.

“Mr. Morgan,” she says, addressing you with a polished calm, “I brought the updated schedule. I hope you don’t mind I tracked you down here. Your 3 o’clock meeting requested to shift to 2:45.”

You smile, amused by the seamlessness of it all. No one stares. No one questions. Even the table where she’d once been laughing moments ago is now occupied by two teenagers and their trays of half-eaten pretzels. The past has folded itself around your will. Reality plays along, as it always does.

“Thanks, Claire,” you say, giving her the name you decide fits her better now. “Take a seat. You’ve earned a break.”

She hesitates for only a moment, then slides into the booth across from you, folding her hands over the folio.

You take another bite of your burger.

She doesn't remember the dress she bought earlier, or the name of the girl she once called her best friend. All she knows is you. That she works for you. That she always has.

And you know this: this power of yours—subtle, omnipotent—is not just about making changes.

It’s about making them believe there never was anything to change.

You lean back in the booth, wiping your hands with a napkin as you study Claire—no, your assistant, Claire. She’s immaculate, efficient, composed. But something in you stirs—a small indulgent whim, the kind that follows so easily in the wake of power that’s never questioned.

You sip your drink again, thinking it through as casually as if adjusting your tie. Then, with the same deliberate clarity as before, you speak quietly into the hum of the food court:

“Claire's dress code has always leaned… provocative. Still professional, just barely. Her wardrobe toes the line in all the right ways—because I prefer it that way, and so does she. And part of her job—one she’s always known—is to act as a social facilitator. She introduces me to women she thinks I’ll find interesting. Attractive. Available.”

The shift is more noticeable this time. A breeze of possibility flows through the moment, almost like a change in lighting. Claire blinks once, then brushes a strand of hair back from her cheek—though now her blouse is no longer modest and plain. The silk has a more suggestive sheen, the top buttons undone just far enough to draw the eye without overstepping. Her skirt’s hem rests higher, and her heels are just a bit more daring. There’s a shimmer to her lipstick now, and a softness to her lashes that wasn't there seconds ago.

She doesn’t miss a beat. No confusion. No awkward tug at her outfit. She simply continues, business as usual—because to her, this has *always* been the uniform.

“You know,” she says lightly, glancing around the food court while tapping one manicured finger on the table, “that woman near the smoothie bar has been looking your way for the last few minutes. Brunette. Tall. Great posture. I think she might be your type.”

You raise an eyebrow, smile curling slow and satisfied. Claire turns slightly, angling herself so you can follow her gaze discreetly. And yes, there she is—a striking woman in athletic wear, sipping through a straw, glancing over the rim of her cup in your direction with open curiosity.

Claire looks back at you, professional as ever, though the faintest smirk plays at the edge of her lips. “Would you like me to introduce you?”

You tap your fingers on the tabletop. The power is always there, ready to be used again. But for now, you enjoy the moment—the reality you've already rewritten.

“Yes,” you say. “Go ahead.”

Claire rises from the booth, smoothing her skirt as she does, and walks confidently toward the brunette. You watch her, knowing she’ll play the part to perfection.

After all, she always has.

You watch as Claire weaves through the crowd, her heels clicking softly against the tile. She reaches the brunette—tall, fit, striking—and leans in slightly, saying something with a polished smile. The woman—Jessica, you decide—glances toward you, intrigued. You hold her gaze, just long enough.

But something in you itches again.

The brunette would *fit* the role even better, wouldn’t she? Bolder. A little more eye-catching. Someone who turns heads when she walks into a room—and enjoys it. That kind of confidence makes for an excellent assistant. Claire, by contrast, has a quiet warmth, a charm that’s real but subtle. She belongs to her own life, one free of your world’s gravity.

And just like that, the idea crystallizes.

You whisper the rewrite into the air between bites of your fries:

“Jessica has always been my personal assistant. She’s dressed to provoke and impress—because that’s the expectation. She’s worked with me for years. Loyal. Sharp. Her job includes finding and introducing women I might like. Claire is no one to her—just a pretty woman she noticed in the crowd today, someone she thinks I should meet. Claire’s never worked for me. Never heard of me, except maybe in passing.”

The shift is immediate. It doesn’t even wait for the next blink.

Now it’s Jessica walking toward you. She’s the one with the leather folio, the pinstriped minidress hugging her curves, her toned legs catching the light in sheer black tights. Her heels are taller, her stride confident, almost performative. Her dark hair is slicked back into a sleek ponytail that sways behind her like punctuation. Her blouse is open enough to invite stares, and her smile tells you she knows exactly what it’s doing.

She slides into the booth across from you without waiting for an invitation, folding one leg over the other.

“Found someone,” she says, placing the folio on the table. “Sitting near the Thai place. Blonde. Killer eyes. A little shy, maybe. Her name’s Claire. You want me to go say hello?”

You glance past her, and sure enough—Claire’s at a table now, sipping an iced coffee and scrolling through her phone. She’s not dressed for work, not dressed for you. Just a simple sundress, soft makeup, sandals. Innocent, ordinary. She’s never met you. Doesn’t know Jessica. She’s just… someone who happens to be here today.

“Yeah,” you say slowly, “I think I’d like that.”

Jessica smiles—wide, knowing, perfect. She’s already standing before you finish the sentence, tugging her skirt slightly lower as she heads toward Claire.

You lean back in your seat, sipping your drink, feeling the world hum and reshape to your will.

The power never resists you. It adapts. Accepts. Just like they do.