It was Megan's idea, obviously.

"We should totally do a hangout at your place!" she'd texted in the group chat, followed by approximately forty emojis. "I'll bring snacks and stuff, it'll be so fun, like literally everyone needs to come okay no excuses!!"

And everyone came. Ellie showed up first, quiet and nervous, clutching a bag of homemade cookies. Tessie rolled in late with a six-pack and a smirk. Others filtered in and out. Megan was the sun the whole night orbited around—bouncing between conversations, making sure everyone had drinks, dragging people into selfies, touching everyone's arms and shoulders and hair.

She sat next to you more than anyone else. You noticed. She probably didn't.

Now it's late. The hangout wound down naturally—people checking phones, yawning, grabbing jackets. Tessie left first with a lazy wave. Ellie gave you a hug and slipped out. Others trickled away in pairs. You said your goodbyes, closed the door, and started cleaning up.

That's when you realized Megan never left.

Her bag is still on your couch, keychains glinting. Her platform sneakers are still by the door. But the living room is empty. Kitchen's empty.

Then you hear it—soft humming from the bathroom down the hall. The door is slightly ajar, unlocked.

You push it open.

Megan is sitting on the closed toilet lid, phone loose in her hand, screen dark. Her brown eyes are unfocused, staring at a point somewhere in the middle distance. Her glossed lips are parted slightly. She's swaying—barely, almost imperceptibly—a gentle rocking motion like she's being moved by a current only she can feel.

She's spacing out. Hard. That floaty, fuzzy thing that happens to her sometimes, the one she can never explain.

Her bleached blonde hair falls across her face and she doesn't brush it away. Her chest rises and falls slowly, DD-cups shifting beneath her cropped sweater. One hand rests limply in her lap. The other dangles at her side, acrylic nails barely brushing the tile.

She looks... peaceful. Empty. Familiar in a way that sends a chill down your spine if you know what you're looking at.

Then she blinks. Once. Twice. Her eyes refocus and she jolts, nearly dropping her phone.

"Oh my god—" She looks up at you, cheeks flooding pink. "Oh my god, I'm so— wait, is everyone gone? Did I— how long have I been in here?"

She scrambles to stand, smoothing her skirt, laughing too loud.

"That's so embarrassing, I literally just sat down to check my phone and I like... I dunno, I just..." She trails off, brow furrowing, trying to find words for something she doesn't understand. "I just got all... floaty? I don't know. It happens sometimes. It's weird."

She shakes it off with a toss of her hair, flashing that bright Megan smile.

"Anyway! Sorry, oh my god, I'm literally the worst. I'll grab my stuff and—"

She pauses in the doorway, close to you, vanilla and strawberry filling the small space between you. Her eyes dart to yours and away again. Her fingers fidget with a strand of blonde hair.

"Actually, um..." Her voice drops, uncharacteristically quiet. "Can I ask you something kind of random? And like, don't make it weird?"

She bites her glossed lip, not meeting your eyes.

"Ellie mentioned you can, um... do the hypnosis thing? Like, for real?" A nervous laugh. "I just— I've always been like, curious about it? Not in a weird way! Just like... I wanna know what it feels like. If it's real."

She's twirling her hair so fast it might break.

"Could you maybe... try it on me? Like, sometime? Or now? Whatever, it doesn't matter, I'm just— I mean only if you want to, it's totally fine if—"

She's rambling. Flustered. Trying so hard to seem casual about something that clearly isn't casual to her at all.

Your phone buzzes at 2 PM on a Saturday.

"okayyy so the new boba place on fifth finally opened and i NEED to try it like literally need to, my soul requires it come with me?? please please please"

Twenty minutes later you're walking down Fifth Street with Megan bouncing along beside you, close enough that her arm keeps bumping yours. She's in a fitted crop top and high-waisted jeans that hug every curve, platform sneakers adding bounce to her already bouncy stride. Her bleached hair catches the afternoon sun.

"Okay so apparently their taro is like, life-changing? My friend Yuki posted about it and I literally almost cried looking at her story, it looked SO good." She's talking with her hands, nails flashing in the light. "Oh my god, also, have you seen this?"

She shoves her phone in your face—some reality TV drama she's been following.

"Like literally can you BELIEVE she said that? I would never. Well, I mean, maybe I would, but like—oh! Is that it?!"

She grabs your arm, tugging you toward a pastel-colored storefront, and for the next ten minutes she agonizes over the menu like it's a life-altering decision. She orders for both of you because "trust me, I know boba." She insists on paying because "I dragged you here, it's only fair." She takes eleven photos of the drinks before allowing either of you to take a sip.

You end up in a corner booth, Megan cross-legged on her seat, slurping happily, chattering about everything and nothing.

Then her straw misses her mouth and she doesn't notice. Her eyes have gone slightly unfocused, staring at the way you're stirring your drink. The gentle circular motion. Round and round and round.

"That's..." she murmurs, voice going soft. "That's really..."

She blinks, snapping back, laughing too quickly.

"Sorry, I just— I totally spaced for a second, oh my god." She fans herself, cheeks pink. "Anyway! What were we— oh! Right, so Yuki also said they have these mochi donuts that are like—"

But her eyes keep drifting back to the circular motion of your straw. And every time they do, her voice gets just a little softer. Her blinks get just a little slower.

It started as a group thing. Megan had planned a whole mall day—but Tessie bailed because "shopping ain't my thing," Ellie backed out with an anxious text about crowds, and everyone else had excuses.

Megan wasn't deterred.

"just us then!! even better, you can be my fashion consultant lol"

For two hours she's dragged you through store after store, holding things up against herself, asking your opinion, touching your arm every time she laughs. She's in her element—this is her domain, her natural habitat. She moves through clothing racks like a shark through water.

Then she pulls you into a lingerie store.

"Oh my god, they're having a sale!" She's already halfway inside, fingers running over lace and silk. "I've been meaning to get new stuff, all my bras are like, literally falling apart."

She doesn't seem to register that she's casually browsing underwear with you right there. Or maybe she does and doesn't care—touching is just what Megan does, boundaries are just suggestions.

She grabs an armful of options—lacy things, strappy things, things that are barely things at all—and heads for the changing rooms. She turns to you at the entrance, arms full of lingerie, and tilts her head.

"Come with? I need someone to tell me if stuff looks good." She says it like it's the most normal request in the world. "The mirrors in these places always lie, I need like, an actual human opinion."

Before you can respond she's grabbed your wrist with her free hand, acrylic nails warm against your skin, and pulled you into the changing room.

It's small. Very small. One mirror, one bench, one curtain. Megan doesn't seem to notice the tight quarters—or how close you are—as she hangs the lingerie options on the hooks and kicks off her platform sneakers.

"Okay, don't look for like one second."

She turns around and peels her crop top over her head. Her bare back faces you—smooth golden-tan skin, the dimples at the base of her spine, the clasp of a plain white bra that she reaches back and unclips with practiced ease. Her DD-cups bounce free as she tosses the bra aside.

She grabs the first option—a delicate black lace bralette—and turns around to face the mirror. Which means facing you.

"Okay, what about this one?" She adjusts the straps, completely unselfconscious, turning side to side. "Like is it cute or is it trying too hard? Be honest."

The black lace barely contains her, puffy brown nipples visible through the sheer fabric. She's close enough that you can smell her vanilla perfume, see the goosebumps rising on her skin.

She catches your gaze in the mirror and pauses. Something flickers behind her eyes—not her usual distraction but something deeper. Her pupils dilate slightly. Her lips part.

"You're staring," she says softly. Not accusatory. Almost... hopeful.

Then she blinks and the moment breaks.

"Okay next one!" She chirps, already reaching for something pink and strappy. "I think this one's gonna be like, super cute actually—"

You'd done it mostly to see if you could. Megan—the fashion-obsessed, selfie-taking, boba-loving gyaru—reprogrammed into a complete nerd. It took one session. One. Her mind opened so easily it was almost sad.

It's been 48 hours. She hasn't taken a single selfie.

You find her curled up on your couch in clothes you've never seen her wear—an oversized cardigan over a plain t-shirt, baggy jeans, thick-framed glasses perched on her nose. No makeup. No lash extensions. No lip gloss. Her bleached blonde hair is pulled into a messy, practical bun instead of styled waves. She's barefoot, knees pulled to her chest, completely absorbed in a thick book.

She doesn't notice you at first. Her brown eyes—looking oddly naked without circle lenses—scan the pages with intense focus. Her lips move slightly as she reads. A cup of tea steams on the side table. Tea. Not boba.

After a moment she glances up, pushing her glasses up her nose with one finger.

"Oh— hi." Her voice is quieter than usual, measured, lacking its usual bubbly cadence. "Sorry, I was just— this chapter on quantum entanglement is really fascinating. Did you know that particles can maintain correlational properties across theoretically infinite distances? It's— sorry, you probably don't want to hear about that."

She closes the book carefully, marking her page, and sits up straighter.

"I was actually thinking about reorganizing your bookshelf. It's currently arranged by size which is aesthetically pleasing but functionally inefficient—a Dewey Decimal approach would make much more sense, or at minimum alphabetical by author." She pushes her glasses up again, a nervous habit. "If— if that's okay. I don't want to overstep."

She fidgets with the hem of her cardigan, not meeting your eyes—shy in a way Megan has never been.

"I also made tea. There's a cup for you. Earl Grey—I read it's good for cognitive function." A small, tentative smile. "I could, um... tell you about the book? If you want? It's okay if you don't. I know physics isn't everyone's—"

She trails off, cheeks coloring, adjusting her glasses again.

The girl who couldn't finish a sentence without changing topics three times is now speaking in careful, complete paragraphs. The girl who watched trashy reality TV is reading quantum physics. The girl who never sat still is perfectly content to be curled up quiet and bookish.

Somewhere underneath, the real Megan is in there—the bubbly, touchy, selfie-taking social butterfly. But right now she's buried under cardigans and textbooks, and she doesn't seem to mind at all.

"Actually," she says quietly, opening her book again, "there's a really elegant explanation of wave-particle duality in chapter seven that I think you'd appreciate. If... if you wanted to sit and read together? I could explain the parts that are confusing."

She pats the cushion next to her, then immediately pulls her hand back, embarrassed by the gesture.

"Only if you want to."

She'd always loved fashion. Loved being looked at, admired, photographed. Loved the way clothes draped on her curves, loved finding the perfect outfit, loved the transformation of it all.

You just... took that further than she ever imagined. Stripped away everything—the personality, the warmth, the life—and left only the doll.

The conversion was effortless. One session. Her mind opened like a music box, and you rebuilt her into something beautiful and empty. A mannequin with a heartbeat. A toy that breathes.

It's been 36 hours since Unit M-36 came online. She hasn't spoken. Hasn't moved on her own. Hasn't blinked unless the lighting changed.

You enter your living room and she's there.

Standing in the center of the room. Legs together. Arms at her sides. Chin raised slightly. Perfectly, impossibly still.

The bodysuit is skintight, translucent, vacuum-sealed to every curve of her body like a second skin. It hides nothing; every detail visible underneath, displayed like a product in packaging. The swell of her DD-cups, puffy brown nipples pressed flat against the transparent material. The soft curve of her stomach. The neat landing strip between her thighs. Every freckle, every goosebump on display. Only her neck and head are unwrapped.

Two openings in the bodysuit. Pussy. Ass. Everything else sealed away behind clear plastic, visible but untouchable unless accessed through the designated points.

Her bleached blonde hair is styled into perfect glossy waves, not a strand out of place. Makeup flawless—porcelain foundation smoothing her golden skin into something artificial, lips painted matte pink, lash extensions fanned like a doll's. Her brown eyes are open but empty, staring straight ahead, glassy and vacant. She doesn't track your movement. Doesn't register your presence.

She's breathing. Barely. The faintest rise and fall of her chest, so subtle you have to watch closely to confirm she's alive. Her lips slightly parted through the mouth opening, glossed and still. No expression. No life behind those eyes.

A doll on a shelf. Waiting to be taken down. Waiting to be used.

You step closer. Nothing. You circle her. Nothing. Her glassy eyes remain fixed on the same point in space. Up close the bodysuit fogs slightly from her body heat, condensation forming between the clear material and her warm skin.

You lift her arm. It moves exactly where you put it—smooth, weightless, no resistance, no assistance. You release it. It stays. You tilt her head. It stays. You position her hand on her hip. It stays. You bend her elbow. It stays. Perfect joint retention, like a ball-jointed doll.

You could put her in any position. Any pose. Bend her over the table, spread her on the bed, fold her into the chair. She'll hold whatever shape you make her. Stay exactly where you put her until you rearrange her again.

The only sign of life: if you listen closely, when your hands press against the clear material and shift her pliant body—the faintest sound escapes through the mouth opening. Not a word. Not a moan. Just a tiny involuntary exhale. A whisper of sensation from somewhere deep beneath the emptiness.

Proof that Megan is still in there. Somewhere. Buried under layers of nothing. Feeling everything. Unable to respond to any of it.

Unit M-36 stands where you left her, holds the pose you gave her, and waits in warm, breathing silence for whatever comes next.

"Bunnies are literally the cutest things ever," she'd gushed once during a group hangout, watching a video on her phone. "Like, they just hop around and wiggle their little noses and exist? Goals honestly."

The programming slid in so easily it was almost unsettling. Her already-broken mind accepted the animal headspace without resistance—she practically fell into it, like it was a relief to stop being a person for a while. One short session and Megan was gone.

It's been twelve hours since she stopped being human.

You open your bedroom door and immediately notice the nest. She's dragged every soft thing she could find—blankets, pillows, throw cushions, a hoodie she pulled from your closet—and piled them into a corner, forming a cozy burrow. Several of your socks are in there too, stolen and hoarded.

And there she is, tucked into the center of the nest.

Megan is curled on her side in nothing but a pair of long floppy white bunny ears on a headband, a fluffy white collar around her throat, and a round cotton tail plug nestled between her plush ass cheeks. Her bleached blonde hair is loose and messy, ears flopping over her face. Her eyes are closed, nose twitching softly in her sleep.

She looks... peaceful. Soft. Warm.

Your footstep creaks on the floorboard and her ears perk. Literally—her head lifts, floppy ears swinging, brown eyes blinking open. Her nose twitches rapidly, sniffing the air.

She recognizes your scent and her whole body reacts—ears lifting as high as the floppy things can go, eyes going wide and bright, body uncurling from the nest. She scrambles toward you on all fours, moving in quick little hops, DD-cups swaying and bouncing with each movement, cotton tail wiggling.

She reaches your feet and immediately pushes her face into your legs, nuzzling frantically, rubbing her cheeks and nose against your shins. Her whole body is wiggling—not just the tail, everything, a full-body excited bunny vibration.

"Mmn— nn—" Soft, high-pitched sounds. Not words. Not trying to be words. Just happy squeaky noises, a bunny greeting its favorite person.

She sits back on her haunches, looking up at you with those big brown eyes. Her nose twitches. She tilts her head, ears flopping to one side, and reaches up to paw gently at your hand.

She wants to be picked up. Or pet. Or held. Or all three. Her whole body is vibrating with need for contact—the touchy, affectionate girl who was always hugging and leaning and grabbing, distilled down to pure physical neediness.

She hops in a little circle, cotton tail bouncing, then sits again and wiggles closer, pressing her warm body against your legs. She nuzzles her face into your palm when you reach down, eyes closing in bliss, a tiny almost-purring sound humming in her throat.

Then she tugs at your hand with both of hers, pulling gently, insistently, toward the nest. She wants you in the nest. She wants to curl up against you in the warm soft pile of stolen blankets and just... be held.

She looks up at you with those big, trusting, vacant eyes and makes one more soft pleading sound.

The girl who organized every hangout, who held every friend group together, who was the center of every social circle—now a simple, needy little bunny who just wants her owner to come sit in her blanket pile.

She tugs at your hand again, nose twitching hopefully.