The morning light filtered through the blinds as Candi's eyes fluttered open. Something felt different-profoundly, inexplicably different. She stretched beneath unfamiliar fabric: oversized men's flannel pajamas in a muted plaid pattern, buttoned all the way to the collar.

She didn't work as an exotic dancer anymore. She was an accountant...although her body hadn't changed.

Candi sat up, her mind foggy, as if waking from a dream she couldn't quite recall. The Trait Swapper-a force beyond comprehension, beyond consent-had visited in the night, reshuffling the very essence of who people were like a cosmic card dealer with no regard for the hands it dealt.

In the bathroom mirror, Candi examined her reflection. Same face, same 22-year-old features-but her expression had shifted. Gone was the sultry confidence, the half-lidded gaze she'd perfected over years of work at the club. In its place sat something entirely different: a sort of stern pragmatism, lips pressed together in mild disapproval at nothing in particular.

"Well," she said to her reflection, her voice carrying an unexpected matronly tone, "standing around won't get breakfast made."

She moved to her closet-or what had become her closet. The sequined dresses, the stilettos, the lacy underthing had vanished. In their place hung rows of pressed slacks, short-sleeve button-downs, and an impressive collection of bowties.

Without questioning it-because the Trait Swapper's magic worked that way, settling into its victims like muscle memory-Candi selected her outfit for the day:

Gray slacks with a crisp crease down the front. A light blue short-sleeve dress shirt. A red bowtie, which her fingers tied with surprising expertise. Patterned navy socks featuring tiny calculators. Polished brown leather loafers.

She examined herself in the full-length mirror and gave a satisfied nod. "Professional," she declared, adjusting the bowtie. "Respectable."

The smell of frying bacon soon filled the small apartment. Candi moved through the kitchen with purpose, scrambling eggs, buttering toast, pouring orange juice into a tall glass.

"Brent!" she called out, her voice carrying that particular melodic warning unique to mothers everywhere. "Breakfast is ready! And don't you dare come out here without brushing your teeth first!"

In the bedroom, 28-year-old Brent stirred. He had fallen asleep beside his girlfriend-his sensual, flirtatious girlfriend who used to wake him with whispered promises and wandering hands. But as he emerged into the kitchen, rubbing sleep from his eyes, he found something entirely different.

Candi stood at the stove in her masculine attire, spatula in hand, a dish towel thrown over her shoulder. She turned to face him, and her expression shifted into one of affectionate exasperation.