The Clinic V

Roger never fit in.
Not in gym class, not at parties, not even in group chats.
He’s got long blonde hair tied in a ponytail, big ears that stick out, freckles, and a goofy overbite that makes him look like a cartoon rabbit.
Baggy blue t-shirt, oversized jeans. Invisible.
Always invisible.

Until he sees the flyer.
“Volunteers Wanted – Clinic for Temporary Identity Experiences. 24-Hour Macho Swap. Limited Spots.”

He freezes. Heart pounding.
One of the options: Arab Macho.
Exactly what he’s not.
Tall. Proud. Handsome. Feared.

He scans the QR code without thinking.
Registers.
Tomorrow. 9 a.m.
One night away from everything he’s ever been.

Roger sat rigidly in the clinic’s waiting area, clutching his phone like it was the last thing tethering him to reality.
The building was sleek, modern—sterile.
He could see his reflection in the glass wall across from him: long ponytail, ears too big, shoulders too narrow, that overbite.
He looked like a background character in someone else’s story.

He swallowed hard.
He was doing this.
He was finally doing something that would change how the world saw him.
No more stuttering in lectures.
No more feeling invisible.

The door to the treatment wing buzzed open.

“Roger?” a nurse called.

He stood up so fast he nearly dropped his phone.

“Right this way.”

He followed, heart pounding, wondering what the Arab Macho package would feel like.
Would he be able to speak? Walk?
Would he still be him?

“Would I still be me?” Roger asked quietly.

Dr. Chen folded his hands calmly and gave a small, practiced smile.
“Well, that depends on what you mean by ‘you’.”

Roger blinked. That wasn’t reassuring.

Dr. Chen continued, “The transformation you’ve signed up for is full-spectrum. That means not just physiological alterations—musculature, bone structure, pigmentation, facial symmetry—but also linguistic adjustments.”

“Linguistic?” Roger asked. His voice cracked.

“You requested the Arabian Alpha template,” Chen nodded. “This includes regional body traits, cognitive rhythm adaptations, and yes—language behavior. Accent, vocabulary, tone, even speech confidence are part of the phenotype package.”

“So… I’ll talk like…”

“A man who grew up in a completely different world, yes.”

Roger sat still, trying to process it.

Chen leaned in slightly. “But you’ll feel like yourself. The transformation interface keeps your memories and self-awareness intact. At least, in theory.”

Roger’s stomach flipped. This was bigger than cosplay. This was—
becoming.

Chen tapped something on the tablet.

“You sure you want to proceed?”

Roger hesitated.

Then nodded. “Yeah. I’m in.”

Roger sat on the edge of the bench in the changing suite, clutching the thin cotton of his clinic gown like it might shield him from what came next.

His mouth was dry. His heart was hammering.
This is stupid. What am I doing?
His reflection in the mirror looked even paler than usual—ears red, lips parted in hesitation.

He hadn’t told anyone. Not his roommate, not his mom, not even in a Discord server. It had all felt thrilling, anonymous, unreal.

Now, stripped of his clothes, ponytail hanging limp, and the sterile light buzzing above him, it was terrifyingly real.

“Arabian Alpha.” What does that even mean?
He imagined waking up with a deep voice, broad chest, facial hair, a commanding presence…
and no way back.

“Nope,” he whispered. “No, I think I’ll—”

A soft knock. The door opened before he could speak.

A nurse with perfect posture and unreadable eyes gave a nod.

“Mr. Newman? We're ready for you.”

Roger stood up instinctively. His brain screamed to protest, but his body was already moving.

He'd always been bad at saying no.

As the door closed behind him, the corridor to the procedure room stretched out like a tunnel. One he wouldn’t come back from the same.

Roger's eyes widened as the cold device touched his skin.

“W-wait—what does it actually feel like?” he stammered, gripping the sides of the chair.

Dr. Chen didn’t flinch. “You may experience a deep sense of dissociation at first. Then warmth. Pressure. And after a few moments—”

A hum filled the room.

Roger gasped. His vision swam for a split second, like reality had glitched. His limbs felt weightless, then suddenly heavy. He blinked rapidly, his chest tightening—not from panic now, but from some unfamiliar internal tension.

“What’s—what’s happening to my vo—”
His words slurred slightly. His throat clenched, as if thickening.

He looked down at his arm.
His wrist didn’t look like his anymore.

Dr. Chen kept a steady hand on the instrument.
“Stay calm, Roger. The neural pathways are beginning to realign. You're doing fine.”

Roger’s mouth moved to speak again, but the sound that came out already had a different texture.

The transformation had started.
There was no going back now.

Roger twitched in the chair, his fingers curling into the fabric of his gown.

“It tingles,” he said, his voice catching in his throat—higher than before, but already losing clarity, like it belonged to someone else.

The prickling sensation swept up his arms and over his shoulders, settling in the base of his neck like a swarm of static.

His spine arched slightly as his posture began to shift—subtle, not yet visible, but undeniable from within. Bones realigning. Muscles waking up. His ears buzzed, his teeth ached, his skin flushed hot and cold in pulses.

“W-what’s happening to my face?” he whispered.

Dr. Chen glanced at the monitor and made a note. “Facial reconstruction is in process. You may feel pressure behind the cheekbones and sinus cavities. Breathe slowly. Let it flow.”

Roger tried, but his breath hitched. The room spun again. A flush spread over his cheeks, down his chest, like something inside was expanding.

This was really happening.

This was the beginning of something unrecognizable.

Roger clenched the edges of the chair as the burn spread deeper—like acid beneath his skin, boiling away what he had been. His jaw trembled. His eyes watered. He wanted to scream but couldn’t. His throat had tightened, voice caught somewhere between a whimper and a growl.

His vision blurred, not from tears but from something shifting behind his eyes.

The sting reached his scalp—his skull. Muscles reknitted themselves, jawline sharpening, nose restructuring. His ears buzzed with a high whine as cartilage subtly reshaped.

Was this pain... or becoming?

He glanced down at his hands—they weren’t his anymore. The fingers were longer, joints stronger. His skin looked warmer, denser.

“Almost through Phase II,” Dr. Chen said calmly, adjusting the console. “You’re doing well.”

Roger couldn’t answer. His tongue felt too thick. His mouth was all wrong. And the voice in his head—still his, but muffled. Like it was being overwritten.

This wasn’t a fantasy anymore.

It was real. And it hurt.

The sharp crack echoed in his skull like dry wood snapping under pressure. Roger jerked, breath caught, eyes wide. His nose—his whole nose—was shifting. The bridge flattened slightly, reshaping, contouring downward. The tip pulled in. The cartilage burned.

Then it happened.

A word—not English—not his—floated through his mind.

"أنا..."
...ana...
“...I am...?”

His heart stuttered. He hadn’t tried to think it. He didn’t know Arabic. But it came anyway. Clear. Natural. Right.

“No. No, no, no,” he whispered aloud—but it sounded slurred, like his mouth didn’t want to shape the words right anymore.

More foreign fragments started swimming up, disjointed phrases flickering into his mind like embedded code unlocking itself.

He wasn’t reading. He was remembering.

Or was he?

The panic came cold and sharp now, replacing the heat in his face.

Roger blinked. His eyelashes felt heavier. He didn't know what scared him more: the pain... or the fact that he was starting to understand what it meant.

Dr. Chen looked up from the monitor and turned to face him. “How do you feel?”

The man blinked. Once. Twice. He looked down at his arms—bigger. His chest—broader. His voice caught in his throat, like something wasn’t quite calibrated.

“How do you feel?” the doctor repeated.

This time, it registered—but only halfway.

His brow furrowed. A pause.

“Wallahi… I feel… uh… good, y’ani,” he said, slowly, the vowels rolling thicker now. “But… strange, kida? Like… I dunnu, bro.”

Dr. Chen leaned forward. “That’s completely normal. Your cognitive and linguistic centers are adjusting.”

The man squinted. “You say zis normal, doctor?”
Doctor came out doktoor, the t a little harder, the r faintly rolled.
“‘Cause I—ya‘ni—I hear myself speak, w ana mish fahim… is dis how I talk now?”

“Yes,” Dr. Chen said calmly. “Your spoken patterns have re-mapped. It’s part of the identity realignment.”

“Subhan’Allah…” he muttered under his breath. Then louder, “I was thinkin’ in English before… now I dreamin’ in Arabic already? Shuf—this is crazy, habibi!”

Dr. Chen raised an eyebrow. “Do you understand me clearly?”

He hesitated.

“Eh… mostly, yes. But some words… they come slow, kida? Like—uhh… how you say…”
He snapped his fingers twice.
“Comprehend, I mean—understand, but like… full.”

“You’re doing fine,” said the doctor. “Just give it time.”

The man nodded, slowly. “Time. Inshallah.”

As he stepped out into the morning air, the city hit different.

No longer Roger the awkward freshman with the nervous smile—today, he was Rachid.
Turtleneck tight around a chest that didn’t use to exist. Chain heavy. Shoulders squared like a man who never apologized first.

The door of the clinic clicked shut behind him.

He pulled out his phone, checked himself in the reflection—one eyebrow lifted. The look was clean. Controlled. Intimidating.

He took a breath, deep through his nose.
Even that felt new.

“Yalla,” he muttered to himself, low and gravelly.
“Let’s show zem what’s up.”

Today, just for 24 hours, he wasn’t some overlooked kid in a hoodie.
Today, he walked the street like he owned it.
Every step, a statement.

And he had no idea how the hell to walk in boots this tight.

The shisha hissed softly in his hand, smoke curling from his lips like punctuation marks to the silence he commanded.

Around him, men leaned in their seats just slightly, voices dropping when they looked his way. He wasn’t speaking—he didn’t need to.
His presence did the talking.

On the TV mounted above the counter, a Lebanese drama was playing.
The dialogue used to wash over him like noise.
Now?
He understood every word. Every bitter insult, every sarcastic jab, every quiet phrase full of implication. It felt natural. Like he’d always known.

Two guys at the next table were arguing in fast, clipped Arabic.

He didn’t just follow.
He had an opinion.

But he said nothing. Just leaned back, exhaled another slow plume, eyes calm, controlled.
The guy behind the counter gave him a nod—one of those deep, respectful nods men give each other when they don’t know you, but they see you.

Ali, he thought.
That was the name that came into his head now. Not Roger. Never Roger.

For today…
Ali was real.
And Ali had presence.

Ole had spotted him first—standing there in the street like a statue carved from pure ego and gym hours.

"Roger?" Ole said, eyes squinting. "Is that you?"

Ali turned, his brow furrowed. "Naam, naam... I mean—yes, bruv. It is me. Is Roger. But not like before, y'know?"

Ole blinked. “What do you mean not like before? What happened to your orthodontics? Your—your entire physiognomy has—”

“Ya habibi!” Ali cut him off, frustrated. “Why you talk like book, wallah? I tell you, I go to ze klinik, eh? Ze one mit ze... transformation! Full pakage! Now I am… strong. Confident. Alpha, bro!”

Ole just stared. “Wait. Are you saying you underwent full phenotypic augmentation, including linguistic adaptation? That's borderline—”

“Yaani, I don’ know what zese word is!” Ali snapped, throwing up his hands. “You always talk like dis, wallah! I’m sayin’ I become ze macho now, ya zalameh. Just for one day, y'know?”

Ole opened his mouth again.

Ali groaned. “Bro. Just say 'cool', or ‘ok’. Why you make headache with all dis professor talking?”

He pointed at his head. “Up here? Still me. But down here—” he patted his chest, “is Ali. Just… for one day.”

Ole scratched his head. “This is… a lot.”

Ali narrowed his eyes. “It is simple, bro. You wanna come shisha or not?”

Ole stood still on the pavement, hands sunk deep in his pockets, watching the broad-shouldered figure stride away—head high, back straight, every step radiating a kind of self-certainty Ole had only ever read about in sociology textbooks.

That voice. That accent. That presence.

Was that really Roger?

His Roger? The awkward, lanky roommate who used to microwave baked beans at 2am and whisper Tolkien quotes under his breath during lectures?

Now he was Ali. A walking power fantasy. The kind of guy Ole would instinctively move aside for on the street. And people listened to him. Admired him.

Ole’s lips parted slightly. A strange knot formed in his stomach.

So the clinic was real.

He swallowed.

No. It’s absurd. Not me. I’m not… built for that. It’s extreme. Irreversible. I think?

But he couldn’t deny it.

Something in him stirred. A quiet ache. Not envy, not exactly. But the possibility whispered.

Just 24 hours, they said…

He looked down at himself. Baggy jeans. Slouched shoulders. Faint freckles. And then back to where Ali had turned the corner, disappearing into the rhythm of the city like he owned it.

Ole stood there a little too long.

No…

Then again…

Or should I?

Ali hadn’t even said a word.

He’d barely lit his second cigarette of the day when two stocky guys across the street gave him a nod—the kind that said you’re one of us. They crossed over, grinning. One clapped him on the back. The other joked about his chain, calling it haram flashy.

He chuckled—a deep, confident chuckle that felt like it came from somewhere new inside him.

“Walla, bro, this chain? You jealous, ah?” he shot back, the words rolling off his tongue, thick with his new accent.

The three of them laughed like old friends.

And just like that, he was in. No awkward introductions. No weird pauses. No explaining who he was or why he was there. They didn’t even ask his name.

They talked about music, cars, girls, lifting routines. They teased each other. They slapped shoulders. One of them offered him a spot at a private gym—“no soft boys, only real men.” Ali accepted without hesitation.

He realized, in that moment, that he was being treated the way he’d always watched from the sidelines. As part of a tribe.

And for the first time in his life, it wasn’t a struggle. He didn’t have to pretend or perform.

He just had to be Ali.

The falafel vendor didn’t ask questions. Just smiled wide and said, “Aywa, big man—extra spicy for you, right?”

Ali grinned and nodded. “Akīd, habibi. Ma fī shay bikhawwif me,” he said, the Arabic sliding off his tongue with ease.

They bantered like they’d known each other for years—about football, about girls, about which neighborhood had the best falafel. The vendor clapped him on the shoulder like an uncle might. Ali paid with one hand and unwrapped the falafel with the other, leaning casually on the cart.

This wasn’t acting. This wasn’t mimicry. It felt natural—like muscle memory he hadn’t earned, but now owned.

The vendor raised a brow. “Wallah, you not from around here, right?”

Ali just smirked, mouth full. “Khalas, bro. Now I am.”

Back in his dorm room, Roger sat quietly, hands clasped, the sharp black of his outfit catching the warm desk lamp glow. The chain around his neck felt heavier now—not physically, but symbolically.

He wasn’t just playing dress-up.
He’d walked different. Spoken differently. Been treated differently.

People looked at Ali with respect. Listened when he spoke. Made room for him. Roger had never felt that before.

He chuckled softly, shaking his head. “Damn, Ali,” he murmured. “You were kind of awesome.”

It had only been 24 hours, but something had clicked.

Tomorrow, the chain would come off. The haircut would grow out. The accent would fade. But the confidence?
That was his to keep.

And maybe… just maybe… Roger wouldn't need to be Ali again.
Because Roger had finally seen who he could be.

As Ali stood in front of the mirror in his Star Wars shirt, he thought for a second: "Okay, I’m Roger again."

But that wasn’t true.
Not really.
The look was too proud.
The shoulders too broad.
The posture too... Ali.

He smirked.
Not shy, not nervous — confident.
"Wallah, I even look solid in this nerd shirt."

He sat down on the bed, arms heavy, mind racing.
The clinic had promised: 24 hours only.

Ali stretched, yawned, and scratched the back of his neck as sunlight spilled into the dorm kitchen. Coffee was brewing, falafel was still lingering in his memory, and his muscles felt glorious.

Then it hit him.

“Shit,” he muttered, eyes wide.
He had class. Important class.
That mandatory lecture in Introduction to Computational Systems.

He froze mid-sip.
No way out. He had to go. As Ali.

The thought made him grin.
Tight Star Wars shirt clinging to biceps that had no business being at a university lecture. Hair slicked. Jaw squared.
Let them stare. Let them whisper.

He grabbed his bag, paused in front of the mirror, and smirked.
"Yalla. Time to educate the nerds."

Ali sat in the middle row, arms crossed over his massive chest, black polo stretched tight. The professor was talking about recursive abstraction in computational models.

Words. So many words.
English words. Academic words. Technical words.
He knew them. Roger knew them.
But Ali?

Ali squinted.
"Yaani... what is this nonsense, wallah."
He felt a tickle of frustration, then a wave of something else:
Boredom.

This was his favorite class. Normally he’d be all in, front row, notes in color-coded glory. Now he was staring at the professor’s mouth like it was running on mute.

A thought popped into his mind:
"Bro, this so... dry."
He leaned back. His brain refused to cooperate.

He wasn’t dumb. But this? This wasn't him.
Not Roger. Not quite Ali either.
Just stuck.

And the worst part:
He kinda didn’t care.

Should we keep going as the time runs out?

Ali sat on the edge of the fountain, phone in hand, lecture hall behind him like a closed door.
He should feel bad.
He didn’t.

The sun hit just right.
His arms looked massive.
People glanced.
Some nodded.

He scrolled mindlessly, but his mind was buzzing.

"This is it, bro..."
“One hour and somethin’, then puff—back to Roger.”

Back to soft t-shirts. Back to blending in. Back to polite nods and awkward silences in bars.
No one giving you the nod like you're someone.
No strangers calling you "akhi."
No aunties smiling at you like you're someone's respectable son.

Ali clenched his jaw.
He could go back into class. Try again.
But for what?

Maybe he should just enjoy the last hour.
Ali style.
Like it mattered.

The street buzzed, blurred around him. People moved.
Ali didn’t.
He lit the cigarette like it meant something.
Maybe it did.

The smoke was harsh. So was the clock in his head.
Fifty minutes.
No—forty-eight.

He watched a guy pass, nod at him. A respectful nod.
He nodded back.
Didn’t know the guy. Didn’t matter.

In this body, in this voice, with this look—he belonged.
Even if it was all fake.
Even if Roger would be back soon.

He exhaled slow.

"Yalla... let’s finish this right."

He checked the time.
Still Ali.
Still sharp.
Still massive.

The smell of strong coffee curled around him as he settled into the café chair, the cigarette still burning lazy between his fingers.

The newspaper felt right in his hands. The script, flowing and dense, didn’t slow him down.
Politics. Football. A scandal in Beirut.
He skimmed it all without a second thought.

The barista nodded at him with that same mix of caution and admiration.
Ali nodded back. Like always.

He sipped his coffee.
Dark. Bitter. Perfect.

Twenty-five minutes left, supposedly.

"Yalla... yalla, what the hell—?!"

His heart dropped into his stomach.

He stared at the screen. Blinked. Swiped. Locked. Unlocked again. Same time.
20 minutes past the deadline.

"Shu... shu hada?! No no no... wallah, this not happen, bro."

His mouth went dry, cigarette forgotten, stuck to his bottom lip.

He wasn’t Roger in Ali’s body anymore.
He was just... Ali.
Still reading Arabic like a local. Still thinking in that thick, hot mix of street English and home-tongue slang.
Still solid. Heavy. Sharp-jawed and tight-shirted.

"No no no no no, bruv, this just part of the plan, yes? Just a glitch... khara, no, no glitch, I need to change BACK!"

His brain scrambled, trying to recite the instructions from the clinic, the countdown, the warning.
Nothing. Just a mental blur behind the low hum of fear and adrenaline.

People passed by. He didn’t see them.
His fingers gripped the phone like it owed him an answer.

For a moment, the confidence cracked.

What if he was stuck?
What if he really was Ali now... forever?

He’d had fun, sure. The best day of his life, even.
But this wasn’t supposed to be real.
This was just meant to be a detour. A trip.

Now the road back was gone.

He stood frozen in front of the clinic, the butt of the cigarette trembling between his lips.

"Wallah, this not funny anymore..." he mumbled, pacing.

His chest rose and fell too fast. He looked up at the glass doors — closed. No receptionist. No sign.
Just a faint reflection of Ali, looking back.

"Bro, bro... what I do now? Yani, this place... is it scam? They forget me?!"

His fingers fumbled to refresh the appointment email, tapping the screen like that might change reality.
Nothing.

The words in his head came out wrong — sharp consonants, drawn-out vowels. Thick. Heavy. Natural.

"I can’t even THINK straight in Roger now! What is this—curse? Transformation overdose??"

People passed him, glancing at the nervous, muscular man muttering rapid-fire in some street-tangled dialect of English and Arabic.
He didn’t care.

"La, la... I was student. Smart. Whiteboard, lecture, big words..."
He swallowed.
"... now I say 'bro' to myself."

He stared at the doors again.

One thing was certain.
He was not getting out of this by panicking.
And if this was his life now, he'd better figure out fast how to own it.

"OLEEEE!!" he shouts, fists slamming on the glass.
His face twists in panic, his voice loud, guttural — almost pure Arabic now, words tumbling out too fast.

"La! La! Ma t‘dḫul! MAFI ROUJAA‘! Wallah, listen bro!! You don’—ya’ni—YOU DON’T KNOW what you do!!"

Inside the room, Ole just stares — pale, frozen — like a rabbit caught in a spotlight.
The clinical light above him buzzes faintly.

"Please! Habibi, listen, it’s not game!"
Ali’s voice cracks, muscles tensed like springs.
"They say two hours! Wallah, I still like this! I read newspaper, bro! In Arabic! Like real!"

Ole blinks.
He doesn't move.
His hands are folded neatly in his lap, knuckles white.

Ali pounds on the glass again, voice breaking:
"Ole, if you go in... you no come out same. You think you tourist — you stay prisoner!"

For a moment, everything is silent.
Just breath and fear and buzzing lights.

And then, behind Ole, the door to the operating room opens.

Ali doesn’t resist.
His fists are clenched, jaw set tight, every muscle in his body screaming to fight—but he doesn’t.

The guard’s grip is firm, cold.
As they pull him back, he locks eyes with Ole.

"OLE! Ana stuck! You understand?! Ana—I'm—trapped! This not cosplay, this is real!"

But Ole doesn’t speak. Doesn’t blink.
He just watches.

There’s no fear on his face.
Only curiosity.
Like he’s already halfway gone—already wondering what it might feel like to walk a different life.

Ali twists his neck around one last time as the door swings shut behind him.
"Ya zalameh... please..."

Silence.

The clinic swallows the sound.

Ali—once Roger—tries to explain to Dr. Chen that something has gone wrong. He's 120 minutes past the transformation deadline, and nothing has reverted. His voice is faster, louder, thick with frustration and panic. Words slip between Arabic and English:

"Dr. Chen, la' mish mumkin! I should be back! Ana mish Ali, ana—I'm Roger, enti fahem?! You said 24 hours!"

Dr. Chen stays calm. "Yes, 24 hours. But you signed for permanent assimilation. That was the plan, Mr. Ali. The override window is closed."

Ali stares, stunned. Then his face contorts. His new instincts take over—hot-headed, impulsive, dominant. He slams his fist on the desk.

"You tricked me, ya ibn—this not what I agreed!"

He rises, trembling with rage. Security rushes in just as he balls his fists. The doctor remains seated, composed but firm.

"You are Ali now. Your life is here. Accept it."

Ali growls, fights against the security guard’s grip. His muscles tense, his jaw locked.

But it's too late.

Ali—Roger—is escorted out.

This time, the door doesn’t swing both ways.

He sit on bench, shoulder go like boom-boom, breath heavy, eyes all red. Face wet. No care who see.

“This... this not real, yalla, this can’t be real...”

He rub eye hard, but mirror don’t lie. Window show same face. Big. Shaved sides. Eyebrow tight. Muscle strong. Still Ali.

“Wallah... I just wanna try, man... just little bit fun, y'know? One day! One day, he say! La'—now stuck, like donkey!”

Voice deep. Accent thick. No more soft Roger-voice. It all gone. Like dream fade, and leave only this body.

“Ya rab... what I do now? They trick me? I no sign for this! I no want forever!”

He spit. Wipe nose on hand. Cough through tight chest.

“Was good, sure. Was strong. Boys look. But this—this too much, akhi... this not me. Not really me.”

And still—his heart beat like drum in wrong song. And he know:

He no go back.

Not now. Maybe not ever.

Ali stands tight-chested in front of the door. His fists clench. The dorm supervisor blocks the entry with a cold stare.

Supervisor (stern):
"I told you. You don’t live here."

Ali (thick accent, furious):
"What you talkin’ man? I do live here, wallah! Every day I come, I sleep, I shower, I even put my socks in the machine, bro! Room two-one-four! Window with little plant, is me!"

Supervisor:
"You’re not Roger Weber."

Ali (stomps forward):
"Ya khara! I was Roger, before! You think I choose this? You see this face? These muscles? This not me, man! This some joke, some—some black magic shit! But inside, I’m still him!"

Supervisor (pulls out phone):
"You need to back off now."

Ali (voice rising):
"Wait wait wait! Ask the girl upstairs, always complain about my music! Ask her, man! Or the dude with ugly dog, always bark at me—he know me! Everyone know me!"

Supervisor:
"You’re making trouble."

Ali (pleading, panicking):
"I got exam, man! My laptop in there! My whole life, bro! Just open door one second, you see—my name, my things! I no lie, wallah, I swear on my mother!"

Supervisor (calm):
"You're done here."

Ali (backs off, trembling):
"Ya Allah... this no happen. This no real. What I do now, ha? Sleep in street like dog?"

The door clicks shut in his face.

Ali stares. Then suddenly, with a choked cry, he punches the wall. His shoulders shake. He looks down at his hands—strong, veiny, unfamiliar.

Ali slumps down hard onto the concrete steps. His breathing is shallow. His hands are shaking. One wipes his face. The other digs into his hair. The cigarette’s long gone.

His inner monologue starts—half English, half Arabic, all panic:

ALI (V.O., thick accent, breaking voice):
What I do now... wallah, what I do...
Why this not change back?
Was only for joke—little fun, small prank, just two hours, doctor say.
Two hours!
Not two days! Not forever!

Ya Allah, ya rab... give me back my face...
This not me. This not my body.
I not walk like this. I not sound like this.
They all look... like I am... monster.
Even my tongue betray me.

Roger... Roger gone. Gone like puff of smoke.
Now I am Ali. Just Ali.
Strong arms, thick neck... empty pocket.
No home. No key. No way back.

(he chokes back a sob, punching his thigh)

ALI (V.O., whisper):
You stupid. So stupid.
Thought you can play god, eh?
Thought you can be someone else—just like that?
Now look.

Now cry on step like baby.

He looks up, eyes bloodshot, fists clenched, jaw trembling.
He doesn’t know where to go. Or who he even is anymore.

Ole sits frozen in the chair, paper gown clinging to his back with sweat. His eyes dart nervously between the sterile lights and the heavy medical equipment surrounding him. He heard the shouting through the glass. He saw the face—that face—screaming, pounding against the window.

It looked like Ali.
But it sounded like Roger.
And it looked scared.

Too late now.

The nurse had already clicked the switch.
The reclining chair had already shifted.
The cool antiseptic scent already filled his nose.
And the prick of the IV… already in his arm.

A soft hum begins behind him.
He wants to say something, but his voice barely makes it past his throat.

OLE (weakly, barely a whisper):
"Wait... what is this...?"

A masked assistant enters, nodding toward the screen. The digital overlay flickers, showing facial outlines, musculature diagrams, injection markers.

OLE (V.O., heart pounding):
What the hell did Roger get into? What the hell did I agree to?

His fingers twitch slightly. He tries to sit up—but he’s already too heavy. Too slow.

The sedation is working.

The last thing he sees before everything fades... is his own face, digitized on a monitor—slowly morphing into someone else’s.

Ole stare at da mirror. He blink. Once. Twice.
Dere's no goin' back now.

OLE (thick Polish accent, low voice):
„O Boże… what I did… what da fuck I doin’, kurwa?“

He run hand over his head — no hair. Only bald. Smooth like pierogi plate. He touch da mustache. It's thick. Like brush for boot polish.

OLE (muttering):
„Dis… dis is good, right? Look strong… look like real man now. Like… Łukasz…“

He say da name slow. Careful. It taste funny in his mouth. Forbidden.

OLE (defensive, like to himself):
„Was not gay, okej? Just… admire. Respect, ya? Man like him… he open door, he no say sorry, he spit, he shout, and still… everybody love. He fuckin’ king in garage.“

Ole stand up. Wobble little. Da pants tight. He no used to da weight — da chest, da belly, da fuckin’ gold.

He whisper:

OLE:
„I wanna be like dat... I ask for dis... I paid for dis...“

But then — his face twist. Roger’s panic flash in his head. Da glass wall. Da screams. Da fists.
Ali’s voice, broken:
“Y-you not undastand, bro! Dis is trap, bro!! TRAP!”

Ole bite his lip.

OLE (panicked):
„Maybe… maybe I make big fuckup. Maybe dey no tell truth. Maybe I no can go back, nie?“

He breathe faster. Look around. Nobody here.
He clench fists. Then… release.

OLE (soft, almost proud):
„But still… look at me now. I am da fuckin’ man.“

He grin. Just a little. But it’s there.

And dere he is. Ole. No — Łukasz now. Wide open shirt, gut out like statement. Mustache like war banner. Gold chain catchin’ da light. Cig hangin’ loose from da lip like punctuation mark on a new life.

He walks slow. Heavy. Deliberate. Like he own every inch of concrete under his feet. And he does.

OLE (to himself, smiling, thick Polish accent):
„No more shame, kurwa. No more sneakin’. I am… what I am. Big. Bald. Daddy. And gay. Oh yes, I say dis now. I fuckin’ say it loud.“

He throws a wink to two shocked tourists. One giggle. Da other stares. Ole chuckles.

OLE:
„Dis is who I was all da time, just… now I got da chest to show it, hmm?“

He runs hand across da dome. Feels da sweat, da freedom.

OLE (grinning):
„Da Lukasz inside me… now outside too.“

He lights another cig. Not because he needs to. Because it's part of da look. Da aura. Da story. He is no student anymore. He is not hiding in anyone's shadow. He is da shadow.

He tosses da lighter in da air, catches it. Leans on a pole.

OLE:
„Maybe Roger scared. I get dat. But me? I done bein’ scared, panie. I done bein’ little mouse. Now I got da mustache, da watch, da fuckin’ leather. I got me.“

Camera pans back as he walks down da street. Shirt flappin’, chest hair out like battle flag, every step sayin’ “I am here. I am queer. And I sell you Peugeot for good price, trust me, friend.”

"You... you think zis is joke, ah? You tink zis game we play, like... like costume party? Wallah, no. Zis real. Zis forever."

(He jabs finger at his chest.)

"Look at me. Look! You see man? I no feel man. I feel... cage. Muscle cage. Anger cage. You tink I ask for dis?"

OLE (hesitant):
„But I feel... good, kurwa. Big. Strong. Free. You no feel dat?“

ROGER:
"I feel not’ing but fire inside, habibi. I scream, people run. I love... people no love back. Zey scared. You tink you become king — but you slave now. You no control dis."

(He leans in, voice dropping.)

"Clinic, it take your face, yes. But it also take your heart. Change how you speak, how you look, how you are."

OLE:
„But maybe dis is what I always was. Dis me now, and I like what I see, Roger.“

ROGER:
"You lucky. You choose dis. I no choose. I go in for fix nose, now I got fists instead of soul."

(He points to his head.)

"Now brain just scream. Hit. Push. Show power. Show no fear. Even when I want cry, I can't. Zey delete dat too."

Ali stands behind the counter, blank stare aimed somewhere between the meat skewer and the street outside. He’s wearing a white shirt now — crisp, but meaningless. The smell of grilled meat clings to his skin.

ROGER (voiceover, heavy Arabic accent):
"Zis is not life. Zis is cage wid sauce and salad. Every day same. I no smile. I no dream. I only say: mit alles oder ohne Zwiebel?"

Customers come. He wraps, he cuts, he nods. He doesn’t speak unless he has to.

Because when he does, it comes out like this:

ALI (mumbling):
"You want wit chili? Extra meat, bro? No? Okay, next."

He hears his own voice now and hates it. Low. Commanding. Full of something he never wanted.

And in quiet moments, when the döner spits turn slow and the street outside goes dim, he whispers to himself:

ALI (barely audible):
"Why me, habibi... I go for nose. I get whole new man. But not me. Not Roger. Just... Ali."

He wipes the counter down. Hard. Like he’s trying to erase what’s already burned in.

Ole is long gone.

There’s only Lukasz now — shirt open, cigar lit, gold chain gleaming under the sun. Standing in front of a scratched-up BMW E46 with a rebuilt title and zero shame.

He didn’t plan this. He didn’t dream of it. But he lives it — hard.

LUKASZ (thick Polish accent):
"Life? Hah! Life iz not choose. Life iz take, ja? You take wheel, or you iz trunk monkey."

He winks at a passing twink, who blushes and stumbles over his iced coffee. Lukasz smirks. He knows what he’s doing.
He’s got a little office now. Vinyl seats. Air freshener. Espresso machine. And a reputation.

LUKASZ (gruffly, to himself):
"I used to be Ole. Good boy. Rule boy. Soft voice, sad eyes. But inside... inside was always Lukasz. I just needed... ehhh... tiny push. Or needle."

A long pause.

Then:

LUKASZ (shrugs):
"Now look. I fuck who I want, I sell what I want. Muscle, smoke, leather pants — is all real. Is all me."

And maybe he’s lying.
Or maybe... this was who he was meant to be all along.