You've been reading TSF fiction since you were fifteen — hyoui doujinshi, skinsuit hentai, body-swap manga, the deep corners of Pixiv and Hitomi. Taniguchi-san's stuff was the gateway drug, that first possession scenes searing themselves into your brain and never quite leaving. For years it was fantasy, fiction, something that happened on the page and nowhere else.

Then it started being real.

The news called it an "emerging phenomenon." Forums called it the best timeline. And when TSF-Con announced its dates, you bought a week pass before the page finished loading.

Now you're standing in the registration line at 7:47 AM on Day One, badge lanyard already around your neck, heart thudding against your ribs. The convention center stretches ahead of you — enormous, climate-controlled, plastered with banners advertising possession panels, skinsuit demos, propagation kiosks, a vendor hall that allegedly sells people. The smell is already familiar: carpet, energy drinks, and something faintly sweet you can't place.

Beside you, Sasha shifts her weight and tugs at her own lanyard.

She's not into this stuff — never has been. Twenty years old, shoulder-length blonde hair, the kind of pretty that doesn't try too hard: soft features, an easy smile, a body that fills out her jeans and t-shirt in a way you've trained yourself not to notice. Your best friend since freshman orientation. When you told her you were going, she insisted on coming along. "Someone has to make sure you don't get turned into a skinsuit on Day One," she said, and you couldn't tell if she was joking.

She's scanning the crowd now — the cosplayers in schoolgirl uniforms and too-short skirts, the booth girls already stationed at the welcome desks, the men (and some women, and some people who might be either or neither at this point) clutching schedules and merch bags.

"So," Sasha says, glancing at you, "where do we start? And please tell me it's not the place where they turn people into onaholes."

The schedule in your hand lists a Possession 101 panel at 9 AM, a Skinsuit Try-On demo at 10, a Multipossession Presentation at 11, and a Propagation Pop-Up that's apparently open all day. The Vendor Hall doesn't officially open until noon, but you can see the entrance from here — roped off, guarded, promising everything you've ever read about and more.

"Okay," she says, a little quieter. "We can check out whatever’s on your schedule. Just — can we maybe eat breakfast first? Before I watch someone get hollowed out?"

She's smiling, but there's a nervous edge to it. She's here for you, not for this. And she has no idea what she's walking into.

Neither do you, really. But you've been waiting years to find out.

Day Three.

Your feet hurt, your badge is covered in vendor stickers, and you've already seen things that would've broken your brain at fifteen. Although you have yet to try anything personally, yesterday you watched a man step into a skinsuit made from a Japanese model and walk around the Vendor Hall for three hours, posing for photos. The night before that, you stayed up until midnight at After-Dark and left before it got truly weird — though "weird" has become a relative term.

Sasha is handling it better than you expected. Or maybe worse, depending on how you look at it.

Right now she's standing in front of the Possession Panels schedule board, arms crossed, chewing her bottom lip. She's wearing a sundress today — yellow, thin straps, the kind of thing she'd wear to a farmer's market, and it’s drawing looks.

"Okay," she says, tapping one of the listings. "This one. 'Beginner-Friendly Possession: Hands-On Demo.' It says audience members can try possessing the volunteers."

She turns to you, and there's something in her expression you can't quite read.

"I want to know what it feels like. Being worn, I mean." A pause. "Would you do it? If I volunteered?"

Behind her, a booth girl walks past in a too-short skirt and a vacant smile — occupied, obviously, the man inside her not even bothering to imitate her gait. Sasha doesn't notice. She's watching you, waiting for an answer.

"I figure if it's going to happen to me at some point this week," she says, almost lightly, "it might as well be you first."

You didn't mean to stay past ten.

The plan was simple: evening panels, dinner, hotel. But you wanted one more pass through the Vendor Hall, and Sasha wanted to peek at the Merge Lounge because she'd been "thinking about it all day, just hypothetically." Somewhere between the two of you wandering separate directions, the overhead lights shifted from fluorescent white to warm amber, and a chime sounded over the PA.

10:00 PM.

The signage changed. Banners that read "DEMO" and "TRY ME" now read "USE ME" and "NO LIMITS." Booth girls who'd been smiling politely all day were still smiling, but differently. A woman walked past you — or a man in a skinsuit, rather, her face seamless and pretty but her gait entirely masculine, hips swinging wrong, one hand groping her own tits like she'd just discovered them. Nobody batted an eye.

Sasha found you near the Dollification Pods, eyes wide.

"The exits are locked," she said. "They open at seven."

She looked at you. You looked at her. Above her head, a banner — red on black: AFTER-DARK: PRESENCE = CONSENT. NO EXCEPTIONS.

The floor was getting louder. A girl moaned somewhere near the Possession Panels. The Propagation Pop-Ups had a line now — men waiting to fork themselves into booth girls for the night. The Personality Excretion Corner was running a live demo, a fresh blank body standing in the booth window, smiling at nothing.

Sasha grabbed your arm.

"Okay," she said. "We need a plan. Because I am not ending up on a rack at the Skinsuit Try-On booth."

The pay was $500 a day. Seven days, thirty-five hundred dollars, all for standing around in a skirt and letting convention-goers demo products on you. You signed the contract without reading the fine print.

The fine print included feminization.

You're standing in the booth girl staging area at 8:47 AM on Day One, thirteen minutes from doors open, wearing a body that has been yours for approximately nine hours. The Feminization Shop did fast work last night — walked in a man, walked out a woman, same mind, same memories, same you behind a face you don't recognize yet. Five-foot-six, 130 pounds, E-cups that feel heavier than they look, wide hips you keep bumping into things with, hair pulled into a ponytail. The con-issued outfit is a white crop top and a black pleated skirt that doesn't cover much. No underwear, which is policy.

You still think like yourself. That's the strange part. Nothing in your head has changed — you're just in new packaging.

The staging coordinator, a bored woman with a clipboard, walks the line of booth girls and reads assignments. Most of these girls are veterans or volunteers. You're neither.

"You," she says, pointing at you with her pen. "You're unassigned. Means you're flexible — any booth that needs extra bodies today can pull you. Possession Panels, Skinsuit Try-Ons, Propagation, Split-Soul, Excretion, whatever. You go where they need you."

She looks you up and down.

"First time? You'll be fine. Most of the morning stuff is demos. It gets more hands-on after lunch, especially when permanence comes up. Shouldn’t happen to you but no promises." She marks something on her clipboard. "Any preference on where you start?"

You open your eyes and the first thing you see is yourself.

Not a mirror. You — the real you, the original you — standing on the other side of the Propagation Pop-Up counter, staring back with an expression you recognize immediately because you've made it a thousand times. That slightly slack jaw, the widened eyes. He's looking at your tits.

You look down. So are you.

They're nice. Full, heavy, straining against a white booth-girl crop top that was definitely not designed for a D-cup. Your skin is smooth and tan and completely unfamiliar. Your hair is long and light brunette and brushing against bare shoulders. Your hips are wide, your waist is narrow, your thighs are pressed together in a black pleated skirt, and between them — nothing you're used to.

Your thoughts are his thoughts. Completely. You remember buying the week pass, remember walking the floor this morning, remember stopping at this kiosk on a whim because the sign said "COPY YOURSELF INTO A BOOTH GIRL — PERMANENT FORKS AVAILABLE, ASK ABOUT PRICING." You remember the technician asking if you wanted temporary or permanent. You remember saying permanent because it was only $200 more and you wanted to see what would happen.

This is what happened. You're a fork. A real, independent, autonomous copy of a man, living in a booth girl's body. The original is right there, still him, still in his body, and you are now someone else. Same mind, same memories, same personality — different everything else.

He's still staring.

You realize you're still staring at each other. Thinking the same thing, probably. The technician clears her throat.

"Transaction's done," she says, stamping a form. "She's yours. Permanently forked, registered to your badge. She's legally your property and you're listed as her originator, so." She shrugs. "Do whatever you want. She's you."

It was shockingly Sasha's idea, not yours.

She'd been binge-reading Tamashii Insert since you showed it to her last month — devoured every chapter in a weekend and came out the other side a convert. When she heard TSF-Con was happening, she didn't just want to come along. She wanted to cosplay.

So here she is: Yui-chan. Naoto-kun's younger step-sister, the very first girl he possesses in Chapter 1 — the scene that launched a thousand fetishes. Sasha nailed it. The green sweater dress sitting right on top of her DD-cups and ending just below her hips, the navy blue sports bra visible at the neckline holding those big tits in place, the yellow-and-white striped panties peeking when she bends even slightly. Light brunette hair, large green eyes — she already had both, which is half the reason she picked Yui-chan. Contacts made the green brighter. The rest is just Sasha, five-foot-five with a perfect little body, looking so much like the character it's almost uncomfortable.

The problem is that everyone else recognizes her too.

You've been on the floor for two hours. In that time, six different men have approached Sasha and asked her to "do the scene." The scene — Chapter 1, the Insert app, Naoto-kun jumping into Yui-chan's body and going to her room and masturbating in her skin while she's gone, feeling her tits, her pussy, all of it, then slipping back out and leaving her with no memory, while Naoto-kun’s body just goes about life on autopilot, acting exactly like Naoto would if he was inside it and unknowing. The most iconic possession scene in modern doujinshi. And Sasha is dressed exactly like the girl it happened to.

She's been laughing them off. "Just cosplay!" she keeps saying with that easy smile, waving her hands. Most of them shrug and walk away. But the Vendor Hall opened at noon, and now some of these guys are carrying actual Insert-brand phone apps.

A man approaches. Seventh one today. He's holding his phone up, screen facing Sasha, showing the Insert app interface — her photo already loaded into the targeting reticle.

"Hey, Yui-chan," he says, grinning. "Chapter 1?"

Sasha glances at you.

Day One, 11:43 AM. You've sold exactly zero Skinsuit Knives.

Your booth is small — back corner of the Vendor Hall, wedged between a Propagation kiosk and a guy selling bootleg Costume Guns. You've got a table, a display case with six knives laid out on velvet, a banner that reads "ARTISAN SKINSUIT KNIVES — HANDCRAFTED, SINGLE-USE, CLEAN CONVERSION," and an empty rack behind you labeled INVENTORY where finished skinsuits are supposed to hang.

The rack is empty. You don't have inventory yet. The knives convert a living person into a wearable skinsuit — that's the product — but you need a person to convert first, and booth girls assigned to your section don't clock in until the afternoon.

Then five girls wander over.

They're loud, laughing, clearly a few drinks in from the Merge Lounge's complimentary bar, all wearing con badges and matching crop tops that say "TSF-CON 2025" in glitter letters. Every single one of them is built like she was designed by committee: a redhead with F-cups barely contained by her top and freckled cleavage spilling over the neckline; a tan brunette with an hourglass figure, thick thighs, and a waist you could wrap your hands around; a blonde who's mostly legs and ass, six feet tall in platform sneakers; a dark-haired girl with DD-cups, full lips, and hips that bump into the display case when she leans in; and a curvy Latina with green eyes, a fat ass stretching her skirt to the limit, and tits that bounce every time she laughs — which is constantly.

The redhead picks up one of the knives and turns it over in her hand.

"So how does it work?" she asks. "Like, you just stab someone and they become a skinsuit?"

You explain. Single clean stroke, painless, instant conversion. The person becomes a wearable full-body suit — face, hair, body, everything preserved. Whoever steps into the suit becomes them, physically indistinguishable. Suits last indefinitely if stored properly, restoration easily done by touching the knife’s pommel to the skinsuit.

The blonde whistles. The brunette is already reaching for the waiver stack on the table.

You have two stacks. The one on the left is the demo waiver — standard stuff, lets attendees handle the knives and watch a demonstration. The one on the right is the inventory waiver. A person who signs it consents to being converted into a skinsuit and added to your booth's product line. For sale.

The brunette grabs five sheets from the right stack. She doesn't read them. Signs hers, passes the rest, and all four friends scribble their names without looking — the redhead mid-laugh, the Latina while checking her phone, the dark-haired girl using the blonde's back as a writing surface.

"There," the brunette says, sliding all five waivers across the table with a grin. "Now show us how it works."

You look down at five signatures. Then at the empty INVENTORY rack. Then at five girls who have no idea what they just consented to, all of them gorgeous, all of them smiling, all of them waiting.

Six knives in the case. Five girls at the counter. One empty rack.

You lost Sasha somewhere around the Skinsuit Try-Ons an hour ago. Texted twice, no answer.

You find her at the Personality Excretion Corner.

She's in one of the booth's open stalls — not a stage, just a padded bench behind a half-curtain that anyone walking by can see past. Bent over in her white tank top and denim shorts, blonde hair spilling forward. A technician in gloves stands behind her, casual.

Sasha's shorts and panties are pulled down to her knees. A thick, translucent rope of bright teal gel is pushing slowly out of her asshole — smooth, unbroken, shimmering under the booth's overhead light. It coils into a collection basin beneath the bench, already two feet long and still coming. That gel is her. Her humor, her warmth, her stubbornness, everything that makes Sasha Sasha, sliding out in one vivid strand.

Her eyes are open but fading. Not pain — absence.

A clipboard hangs from the bench. You grab it. Sasha's handwriting, her signature, on an inventory waiver — not the demo form. Full excretion, body forfeiture, shaping rights. She grabbed the wrong sheet and didn't read it.

The last of the teal gel slides free with a soft, wet sound and her body falls down onto the bench. The technician lifts the coiled strand with both hands, inspecting it against the light.

"Clean pull," he says approvingly. Then he glances at you. "Oh — you must be the friend she kept mentioning. She was talking about you right up until she went under."

On the bench, Sasha's body hasn't moved. She's just lying there — breathing, warm, eyes fully open and completely vacant. No muscle tension, no expression, no Sasha. A body with nothing inside it.

The technician holds up the teal gel in one hand and gestures at the empty body with the other.

"So — the personality I can store as-is, shape it into an onahole or something else, or sell it on the floor. The body's a blank, so same options really. Keep her, sell her, donate her to the volunteer pool." He shrugs. "Waiver says inventory, but since you're her friend I'll give you first pick on both. What do you want to do with her?"