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— You look absolutely stunning, Aisha, — said the gray-haired, bearded man who had agreed to help Tom for a certain amount of money with his cover.

— Oh, stop talking nonsense! I look ridiculous, damn it! — Tom grumbled, trying to keep his balance on the heels and adjusting the long dress that clung too tightly to his body, hiding the artificial forms underneath. — If I had known you were going to make me dress up as a woman, and worse, as some kind of Muslim woman, I would have chosen a different helper!

The man merely shrugged, his eyes sparkling with amusement.

— But you chose me. And now it’s too late to argue. In any case, no one will suspect that there’s a fugitive hiding under that headscarf and dress. You look like any tourist from the Middle East trying to avoid unnecessary attention. And that’s our victory.

Tom exhaled in frustration, once again feeling the discomfort of the artificial breasts and hips. It all felt so wrong, so foreign. He had always been a guy with minimal demands in life: jeans, a T-shirt, and freedom. And now he stood there in these clothes that betrayed his own body, creating an illusion of femininity he had never known.

— It’s just a disguise, — he muttered to himself, trying more to convince himself than his "helper."

— Of course, — the man nodded, his voice remaining calm. — Just a few hours. Long enough to escape. The taxi is already waiting, you’re ready.

"Ready..." That word triggered a new wave of irritation in Tom. But he knew there was no way out. Everything had been planned — the documents, the visas, even the backstory of his new life that he had to memorize: Aisha al-Hadi, a tourist from Oman. A simple, modest woman on her way to the airport. He glanced in the mirror again. The headscarf hid his short hair, and the makeup had changed his face so much that even he could barely recognize himself.

— You’ve done everything to avoid being tracked. Now get in the taxi and calmly go to the airport. There’s a ticket waiting for you there, and this whole story will be behind you, — the man’s voice was like hypnosis, instilling confidence. — Just try not to get nervous, Aisha.

— Stop calling me Aisha, — Tom growled, adjusting the headscarf that kept slipping off his head. — I’m Tom, damn it.

— Right now, you’re Aisha, — the man finally smiled. — And forget about "Tom." You won’t be going back to him.

Suddenly, a chill ran down Tom’s spine. He wanted to ask what that meant, but the man had already turned and opened the door. The taxi was waiting outside, the driver patiently sitting behind the wheel. Tom reluctantly stepped out, feeling the unpleasant pressure of the heels on his feet. Every step was a struggle, and he could still feel the weight of the artificial forms hidden under the dress. The breast and hip prostheses he had put on felt stiff, uncomfortable, as if they were made of dense rubber. The dress hugged his body too tightly, and the whole scene felt like a poorly staged comedy.

"Just a few hours... just endure it," he kept repeating to himself like a mantra as he walked toward the taxi. Tom heavily sat down in the back seat of the taxi, irritably tugging at the hem of the dress.

The driver glanced at him briefly through the rearview mirror. — Where to? — he asked calmly.

Tom knew he needed to speak softer, more feminine, to avoid giving himself away, but when he opened his mouth, a shrill, unnatural voice came out.

— To the airport... — he stammered, and the voice sounded so absurd, like a woman trying to imitate a little girl’s voice. Tom grabbed his throat and muttered something, suddenly realizing that it sounded more like a woman’s voice than his usual masculine tone.

The driver nodded as if nothing strange had happened and drove off. Tom tried to relax, even a little, but with each second, things got worse. The dress, which he had previously thought of as just a disguise, now clung to him differently, as if something inside had changed. He absentmindedly touched his chest and froze.

A bra. A real bra, and under it... not prostheses. Under his fingers was soft, warm flesh. Tom froze, panic rising in his chest along with his breathing. He pressed harder, checking, but it wasn’t an illusion — it was his own breast.

Tom dug his fingers into the fabric of the dress, feeling panic start to spiral. His hips under the dress no longer felt artificial; they were real. Soft, round, real hips. He slowly shifted in the seat, and then a new shock hit him — instead of the usual underwear, he was now wearing a thong, a thin strip of fabric sliding between his legs.

He reached for his head, and his fingers touched the softness of long strands that had once been a wig. He even remembered putting it on, but now, under the headscarf was real, thick hair. Tom wanted to pull off the scarf, to check — but what would he see? He already knew the answer without even looking. This was his hair.

The driver discreetly glanced at him again through the rearview mirror, noticing how strangely his passenger was acting.

— Everything alright? — he asked, frowning slightly.

Tom tensed, his palms covered in sweat. "What did he say?" Tom tried to make sense of the question, but the words were like noise, meaningless and devoid of logic. All this time, his body kept feeling how the new parts of him moved with each slight motion. He understood the driver needed something from him, but he couldn’t comprehend why. Why had the driver suddenly stopped speaking English?

— (تحدث الإنجليزية!) — "Speak English!"

Tom froze at what he had just heard. It wasn’t the driver speaking in another language — it was Tom now speaking Arabic. His breathing became heavy. He tried to say something else, at least one word in his native language, but each phrase, each attempt to express himself kept coming out in Arabic:

— (لماذا لا أتحدث بالإنجليزية؟ ماذا يحدث؟!) — "Why am I not speaking English? What is happening?!"

— Sorry, I don’t speak Arabic, — muttered the driver, visibly puzzled. He turned back to the road, but still looked concerned.

— (لا... لا أفهم...) — "I don’t understand..." — Tom whispered, looking at the driver with wide eyes. Then he pressed his hand to his mouth, realizing what the man had meant when he said "forget about Tom." He sank back into the car seat, his eyes wide open, not believing the reality of what was happening.