The streets are slick with reflected neon as you turn away from home. Each step pulls you further from the store, further from anything familiar. The air smells of rain and old asphalt, but it can’t cut through the heat building under your skin.
Your stride lengthens without you trying. Your hips and shoulders roll in a way that makes you feel taller, heavier, more… there. The sound of your sneakers against the wet pavement is different now — a deeper, firmer thud.
You pass another darkened shop window and your eyes flick sideways. The outline staring back at you makes you slow down. Your traps are a little higher, your shoulders a little broader. You push your chest out experimentally, and the shirt doesn’t hang the same way it did when you left the store — it sits on you, clinging faintly to new curves and angles.
The heat from the UNSAFE pen hasn’t faded. It’s pushing outward, pulsing in slow waves. You flex your hands and your forearms tighten harder than they should, lines of muscle pressing faintly under the skin.
At the next corner, you stop under a buzzing streetlight. The yellow glow catches on your neck, and you see the shadow it throws — thicker, more solid than you remember. You take a slow breath and your chest rises higher, the fabric stretching just enough to make you aware of it.
It’s not just a feeling anymore. You’re growing. Not by inches, not yet, but enough that your body feels like it’s in motion even when you’re standing still. Every minute you stay out here, it’s like the city’s pulling more size out of you.
Your pulse is steady but heavy, a constant reminder of what you’ve just done — and of how far it might go before the night’s over.
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