Jonathan sat perfectly centered on the armless couch, hands folded in his lap, afraid to shift even an inch. The body he occupied was not his own. It belonged to an Asian woman with hair cut brutally short, the kind of precision that left no room for vanity. A pink blouse lay smooth against her shoulders, a white bow tied neatly at the collar. The blouse was tucked with exacting care into a white pleated skirt that draped with ceremonial modesty over her knees and flowed down to her ankles. Pink tights hugged her legs, and white low-heeled dress shoes rested flat against the floor.

This was how he had received the body. This was how he was expected to return it.

The attendant had made the rules painfully clear. Not a hair out of place. No wrinkles in the clothes. No tears, scuffs, or stains. The body itself had to be pristine-no scratches, no bruises, no blemishes. Makeup reapplied in precisely the same fashion, down to the faintest shade and line. Jonathan had signed the contract with shaking hands, half-distracted by the strangeness of looking down and seeing someone else’s knees beneath the skirt.

The bruise happened on the third day.

It was small, barely more than a shadow on the back of the left thigh, the result of an awkward bump against a low table. Jonathan had frozen when it happened, heart pounding, already calculating excuses that wouldn’t work. He tried everything he could think of: cold compresses, careful makeup, strategic lighting. By the time he returned the body, the blemish had faded-but it hadn’t vanished.

The attendant noticed immediately.

There was no anger in her expression, only disappointment, which somehow felt worse. She gestured to the contract, to the clause Jonathan had skimmed but never truly believed would apply to him. Damage, even minor, carried consequences.