John’s bed stopped turning with a faint click, leaving him staring at the mirror.
For a moment, he didn’t recognize the child reflected back.
The boy staring at him was maybe eight years old, small but wiry, with a lean, active sort of frame—like one of those kids you’d see darting across a soccer field, all knees and elbows but fast as lightning. His skin was smooth and unblemished, carrying the faint sun-kissed tone of someone who spent most weekends outdoors. What caught John off guard most was the hair: a mop of thick jet-black curls, cut short enough to be practical but long enough to bounce around with a stubborn sort of energy. The curls framed a face that was entirely unfamiliar yet strangely photogenic, with wide, dark eyes that glittered as though amused by some private joke. He had the faintest dimple in one cheek, a detail that made the reflection look like one of those annoyingly adorable sports-catalog kids that parents pointed to when shopping for their own children.
John blinked several times, shifting in the restraints. The boy in the mirror mimicked him, expression turning nervous.
“That’s me,” he whispered under his breath, voice higher, lighter, carrying none of the awkward depth of teenage puberty he’d grown used to. He could hear the faint lilt of youth in every syllable, a kind of permanent curiosity baked into tone.
Violet stepped forward, clipboard in hand, dressed in her neat black suit with her dark hair pinned back so severely it looked like a helmet. “Yes. That’s you now. John Letson, eight years old, identical triplet.”
He wanted to argue again, to shout at her, but the last round of complaints had been brushed off with clinical coldness. He decided instead to mutter: “I look like a kid from a cereal commercial.”
“That’s the idea,” Violet replied. She snapped her fingers, and one of the assistants—a young man in gray—brought over a folded pile of clothes. Violet placed them on the bed near John’s feet. “Get changed. These will be your first set of casuals. We’ll be providing more, but this will be your baseline.”
The restraints released with a pneumatic hiss. John sat up, dizzy, rubbing his arms where the straps had pressed. His new limbs felt strange—shorter, smoother, with none of the lanky awkwardness he’d carried as a teenager. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, toes brushing the sterile tiled floor, and realized they didn’t even reach properly. The loss of height was jarring.
He unfolded the bundle of clothes. A pair of loose soccer shorts in bright navy blue, a lightweight gray tank top, and a hoodie in pale green with white stripes down the sleeves. The hoodie looked oversized for his little frame, deliberately so, the sort of garment kids would throw on after practice, letting it hang baggy and casual.
“Sporty,” John muttered.
“Exactly,” Violet said, making a note. “Your cover family are the Letsons, a healthy, active suburban household. Neighbors will expect the triplets to be involved in community sports, possibly soccer or swimming. This clothing reflects that lifestyle. Put it on.”
John hesitated. The strangeness of being ordered to dress like a child gnawed at him, but resisting would do nothing. He peeled off the flimsy gown he’d woken in, cheeks burning at how small and vulnerable his new body felt, and tugged on the shorts. They swished around his thighs, light and cool. The tank top slipped over his narrow shoulders easily, clinging just enough to show the faint muscle definition of a boy who ran a lot but hadn’t yet hit puberty. Finally, he pulled the hoodie on, the sleeves hanging long past his wrists until he shoved them up, leaving the fabric bunched around his elbows.
He turned back to the mirror.
The effect was startling.
The boy looking back at him now looked… normal. Not like a lab subject. Not like someone recently transformed against his will. Just a sporty kid, ready to dash outside and kick a ball around with friends. His black curls stuck out rebelliously from under the hood, his dimple showing faintly when his lips parted. He could almost believe he’d always been this way.
John’s stomach churned.
“That’s not me,” he whispered, though the reflection argued otherwise.
“From now on,” Violet corrected. “That is you. Learn to own it quickly. Now, come—your sisters are waiting.”
The door slid open with a hiss, and Violet led him down a corridor lit with sterile white lights. John’s smaller legs struggled to keep up, the hoodie swishing at his sides. They stopped before another door, which unlocked with a heavy click.
Inside, two children sat on beds opposite one another.
John froze.
The first was a little girl, hair a honey-blond bob with bangs that framed her small, heart-shaped face. Her big brown eyes flicked up at him nervously. She wore denim shorts and a pink T-shirt with a glittery butterfly across the chest. Something about her posture—how she hunched, awkward, shifting her weight—was painfully familiar. Mikey. His brother. Now Amanda.
The second child was taller, lankier but still clearly eight years old. Her hair was longer, curling just below her shoulders in glossy dark waves. Her features were refined, almost delicate, like a young actress cast in a family drama. She wore light gray leggings and a loose sky-blue tunic. She sat straighter than Amanda, hands folded primly, though her eyes darted toward him with clear discomfort. That was Zoe. Now Casey.
Amanda blinked at him, eyes wide. “Jon?”
“John,” Violet corrected smoothly. “And you are Amanda. Say it.”
Amanda swallowed, voice trembling. “Amanda… Letson.”
Casey’s voice came next, firmer but edged with bitterness. “Casey Letson.”
John opened his mouth, but for a moment no words came. Finally: “John Letson.” The sound of it was strange, thin, like fabric stretched over something else.
Violet nodded. “Good. You three are triplets. Same age, same birthday. You will share a grade at school. People will expect you to act close. Learn to behave as such.”
Amanda wrung her hands. “But… but I was—”
“Not anymore,” Violet cut in, tone sharp. “What you were no longer matters. Adapt, or you risk exposure. Exposure means death.” She let the word hang in the sterile air, cold and final.
John glanced again at the girls. Amanda—Mikey—looked like she might cry. Casey’s jaw was set in tight defiance.
He wanted to say something, anything to make it easier, but nothing came.
Instead, Violet ushered them into the next chamber.
Two adults waited there.
John’s breath caught.
They were beautiful.
The man stood tall, broad-shouldered, with tousled chestnut hair and a jawline sharp enough to belong on magazine covers. His eyes were a striking blue, his smile easy but strong. He wore a crisp white button-down with sleeves rolled, showing tanned forearms, paired with dark slacks that fit perfectly. He looked no older than thirty, like a fitness model.
Beside him stood a woman with flowing auburn hair, soft waves cascading past her shoulders. Her face was luminous, every feature refined to near perfection: wide green eyes, high cheekbones, full lips touched with subtle gloss. Her figure was slim but shapely, the kind of effortless elegance people envied. She wore a light sundress in soft lavender, the fabric swaying gently as she turned. She, too, looked in her late twenties.
John realized with a jolt who they were.
Mom. Dad.
Transformed.
His father—Barry—looked like a man just starting his career, not one who’d already been through two decades of parenting. His mother—Linda—looked like she’d stepped straight off a runway, younger than John remembered by at least fifteen years.
They turned toward the children, smiling warmly though the unease in their eyes betrayed the truth.
“Kids,” the man said, voice deep, rich, but still undeniably Barry. “It’s… us.”
The woman crouched down, dress pooling gracefully around her knees, and extended her arms. “Come here, my babies.”
Amanda burst into tears, rushing into her embrace. Casey followed more hesitantly, though her lips trembled as she was pulled into the hug. John stood frozen, hoodie sleeves hanging awkwardly, staring at the perfect strangers who were supposed to be his parents.
The woman—Linda—looked up at him, eyes wet but soft. “John… come here.”
Slowly, he moved forward, letting himself be gathered into the embrace. He smelled her perfume, floral and new, not the familiar hint of laundry soap and coffee that usually clung to his mom. His father’s strong arm wrapped around them all, pulling tight.
“We’re together,” Barry murmured. “No matter what they change. We’re still us.”
But John wasn’t sure anymore.
