Part 1

Thomas leaned back in his worn armchair, the kind that had seen better days in his cluttered apartment, nursing a lukewarm beer. The room was dimly lit by a single lamp, casting long shadows across the posters of classic rock bands and scattered video game controllers. Across from him sat Richard, fiddling with his phone, his lanky frame sprawled on the couch like he owned the place. Harold paced near the window, his stocky build making the floorboards creak with each step. The three had been friends since college, bonded over late-night gaming sessions, bad jokes, and a shared disdain for anything too serious. But tonight, the air felt heavier, laced with an unspoken tension that none of them wanted to acknowledge.

It had started as a rumor, whispers on social media about a new virus sweeping through the city. The Gender Swap Virus, they called it-GSV for short. At first, it sounded like science fiction: a pathogen that targeted mostly men, rewriting their biology from the inside out. Physical changes came first-subtle at the onset, like softening features or shifting proportions-followed by mental shifts, rewiring thoughts, desires, even identities to match the new form. No cure yet, just isolation and hope that it burned out on its own. But hope was a fickle thing, especially when the news reported infection rates climbing daily.

Thomas, the pragmatic one of the group, had been the first to mention it a week ago. He'd felt off after a crowded bar crawl-feverish, achy-but chalked it up to a hangover. Richard, ever the optimist with his messy brown hair and perpetual grin, laughed it off. "Come on, man, it's probably just the flu. Or that sketchy taco truck we hit up." Harold, the worrier hidden behind a tough exterior, nodded along but hadn't slept well since. They'd all tested positive at the clinic yesterday, but the doc said symptoms might not show for days, or even weeks. "Nothing to do but wait," he'd advised. So they waited, pretending everything was normal.

"Pass the controller, Dick," Thomas said, using Richard's hated nickname to lighten the mood. They were deep into a co-op shooter game, blasting virtual aliens on the screen. Richard tossed it over without looking up from his phone. "You see this? Another outbreak in the suburbs. Guys turning into... well, you know."

Harold stopped pacing and shot him a glare. "Dude, can we not? We're fine. No fever, no weird aches anymore. Probably a false positive."

"Yeah, exactly," Thomas agreed, though his voice lacked conviction. He paused the game, setting the controller down. "But... what if? I mean, the stories online-guys waking up with curves, voices changing, even their heads messing with them. Remembering things differently, liking different stuff."

Richard snorted, but his laugh was forced. "Like what, suddenly craving rom-coms and yoga pants? Nah, that's bullshit. We're dudes through and through. Beer, bikes, babes-nothing's gonna change that." He scrolled through his feed, but his thumb hovered longer than usual on posts about support groups for "transitioners," as they were called now.

Harold leaned against the wall, arms crossed. "My cousin's friend got it. Said it started with his skin feeling sensitive, then bam-everything flipped. He's... she's happy now, apparently. But I don't want that. I like being me."

The room fell silent, save for the hum of the fridge. Thomas rubbed his temples. "We should just ignore it. Doc said stress makes it worse. Let's finish the level."

They dove back into the game, trash-talking like old times, but worry lingered in the pauses. Jokes about "if we turn into chicks" slipped in, half-hearted deflections. By midnight, as they called it a night, no one mentioned the itch in Thomas's back or Richard's unusually smooth shave that morning. They hugged awkwardly-manly slaps on the back-and parted ways, each heading home with the same silent prayer: Please, let it be nothing.

End Part 1.

Part 2.

Two weeks had passed since that tense night in Thomas's apartment, and the trio's group chat had gone eerily quiet. Thomas and Harold exchanged furtive texts, avoiding the elephant in the room-or rather, the virus that might be reshaping their lives. Richard had been the first to complain about "feeling weird," but they'd brushed it off as paranoia. Now, as Thomas scrolled through his phone at work, a message from Harold popped up: "Dude, check on Rich. He sounded off on the phone last night."

Thomas sighed, rubbing his eyes. He was a software engineer, buried in code all day, but his mind wandered to the GSV forums he'd been lurking on. Stories of men fighting the changes, only to succumb. He typed back: "Yeah, I'll swing by after shift. You coming?" Harold's reply was immediate: "Hell yes. But act normal."

When they arrived at Richard's cramped condo that evening, the door swung open to reveal their friend looking... different. His usually messy hair seemed longer, shinier, framing a face that had softened around the edges-cheeks less angular, lips fuller. He wore his old band tee, but it hung looser on his frame, which had slimmed noticeably. "Hey, guys! Come in, I was just bingeing some shows."

Thomas forced a grin, clapping Richard on the shoulder-ignoring how delicate it felt. "Looking good, man. Lost weight? Gym finally paying off?" Harold nodded vigorously, plopping onto the couch. "Yeah, you beast. What's on? More zombie flicks?"

Richard laughed, but it came out lighter, almost melodic. "Nah, switched to this rom-com marathon. 'The Proposal' is hilarious-Sandra Bullock's got killer timing." He settled between them, crossing his legs in a way that seemed more graceful than his usual manspread. Thomas and Harold exchanged a quick glance over his head, but said nothing.

As the movie played, Richard fidgeted, tugging at his sweatpants. "These feel scratchy today. Weird, right?" Thomas chuckled. "Probably just laundry day. You're fine, bro." But inside, his stomach twisted. This was it-the physical shift starting. He'd read about it: hormones rewiring the body cell by cell.

After Richard excused himself to grab snacks, Harold leaned in, whispering fiercely. "Did you see his hands? Nails longer, fingers slimmer. And that laugh? We're screwed if this hits us too." Thomas nodded, pulse racing. "I know. But we can't freak him out. Let's say it's allergies or something." Alone in his thoughts later that night, driving home, Thomas gripped the wheel white-knuckled. What if he woke up tomorrow with the same changes? He imagined his broad shoulders narrowing, his voice cracking into something soft. Terror clawed at him; he pulled over, breathing hard. No cure, the docs said. Just acceptance groups. Screw that-he'd fight it.

The next few days blurred into a routine of denial and desperation. They took turns "hanging out" with Richard, which really meant babysitting as the transformations accelerated. His chest began to swell, subtle at first, then undeniable under baggy shirts. "Just man-boobs from stress eating," Harold joked one afternoon, though his eyes darted away. Richard winced, adjusting his posture. "Yeah, maybe. But everything hurts, like growing pains."

Thomas scoured the internet for cures-black-market antivirals, experimental therapies-dragging Harold to a shady clinic downtown. The "doctor" peddled herbal teas and positive affirmations. "Nothing works yet," he admitted, pocketing their cash. Back at Richard's, they presented it as a breakthrough. "Drink this, it'll flush the bug out," Thomas said, handing over the brew. Richard sipped it gratefully, his movements increasingly fluid, hips swaying as he walked.

By week three, the changes were blatant. Richard's beard growth halted; his skin glowed, pores vanishing. He ditched jeans for yoga pants from an online order-"So comfy, guys, you should try 'em!"-pairing them with hoodies that couldn't hide the emerging curves. His voice pitched higher, mannerisms shifting: giggles instead of guffaws, hands gesturing delicately. "I caught myself window-shopping dresses online," he confessed one night, eyes wide. "Is that the mental part kicking in?"