Thursday, August 28th, 2042, NEURASphere seventh floor, Virtual Reality.

  Barely an hour after her shift had started, a message popped up on Emmy’s virtual computer screen. Not simply a notification, in the corner, letting her know she received a message—No. This highest-priority message opened by itself.

  “M-E, we need to talk. In my office.”

  Oh no…

  Her heart stopped. The message was from Sandra.

  Not once in her lifetime had a message starting with “we need to talk” ever led to an enjoyable conversation.

  Her mind quickly conjured all the reasons for her summons.

  Is it about not starting working as soon as I got in? Or is she going to address my glitched avatar? Did Synthia send her a report on my vitals? Or… did I somehow give myself away? Does Sandra know…?

  Emmy sighed and brushed her anxieties away.

  Let’s just get this over with.

  Emmy numbly shut down her computer, the screen’s darkness matching the void consuming her. She rolled her chair back, the movement jarring, and her knuckles blanched as her grip on the table edge became almost painfully tight. She stared at her hands; two tight fists, trembling slightly from the overwhelming stress.

  Priya’s voice surprised her from behind. “M-E?”

  I just can’t right now…

  Emmy froze, her breath catching in her throat as she slowly lowered her head, her gaze locked on her own unfamiliar shoes. Her throat constricted, and she desperately avoided meeting Priya’s gaze, begging in her heart for forgiveness.

  “Sandra’s asking me in her office.”

  The seconds of silence that followed felt like an eternity.

  But she forced herself to add, in a voice as steady as she could muster: “I guess… Just in case it goes south, if I don’t come back? I enjoyed working with you, Pri and J.”

  As she spoke, she did not look up to face either neighbours.

  Emmy shuffled away, her eyes glued to the tiles on the floor just beyond her feet, each step a quiet scuff.

  Okay, who’s cutting onions?

  Once she was certain she had broken line-of-sight, she discreetly wiped away her tears.

  Of course, Emmy. It makes total sense someone would cut onions at their cubicle on the seventh floor.

  After berating herself for the pathetic justification of her tears, Emmy tried to analyse her current situation.

  Would this glitch lead to losing her job? Well, that was simply not an option; she could not afford to lose her job.

  That hardly matters to the company, does it? They don’t care about your circumstances.

  She kept walking towards Sandra’s office, sitting at the end of a very long line of cubicle. But then Emmy spotted something she had been looking for all morning; she had hoped to find at least another person in the situation as she was.

  I’m not alone!

  Another player of A Realm Reforged Again. A Kindred dracan with dark blue scales and fins. She had black hair in a short practical cut. One arm clutching a thick wad of paper against her chest, she worked the printer, her icy-blue eyes flitting to the screen.

  Emmy looked longingly at her clothes. The pencil skirt, heels, blazer, and shirt. From her outfit, Emmy recognised her as a regular employee. Her attire matched that of Priya and her female colleagues. This is what she would wear today, if only society and her birth certificate accepted her for who she truly was.

  For a quick second, the dracan locked eyes with her, and they exchanged a knowing glance. She smiled as Emmy walked past her.

  “Hey gamer, I see you.”

  Emmy silently nodded a timid greeting. She did not know who that person was. But as there were only a few women working on this floor, she tried to guess.

  Is that Amirah, Soraya or Kehlani?

  She attempted to remember if any were gamers, but drew a blank.

  As she searched through her memories, she found herself in front of Sandra’s office. Quickly switching gears, Emmy politely knocked twice on the wall next to the open door, announcing her arrival.

  She peeked inside. Every little thing in Sandra’s office was dust-free and impeccably organised.

  Tidy doesn’t even come close to describing it. Sandra must be a neat freak.

  Sandra looked up from her desk.

  “Ah, M-E. Let’s go. We have a meeting with HR.”

  Directly with HR? Just great. This keeps getting better and better.

  Emmy stepped back outside, getting out of the way. Sandra quickly stood up and walked out of her office, closing the door behind her.

  “Come. We’re taking the executive elevator.”

  This elicited a perplexed eyebrow raise from Emmy.

  But Sandra did not explain or comment further. So they walked together in silence, Emmy following a few steps behind.

  Not exactly silence, actually; the loud clicking of Sandra’s heels made sure everyone turned their gaze to watch them as they passed by.

  Though Sandra completely ignored the pointed stares, Emmy felt their weight, a physical pressure urging her to log off and disappear. But escaping could only make matters worse for her right now.

  The way she broke up with Claire, how she relied on avoidance, rather than facing her problems? It had cost her dearly. So she decided she would at least learn from her mistakes.

  Think of it as progression raiding and seeing a boss’ special attack for the first time.

  This time? Emmy resolved to follow protocol, no matter what.

  As the doors of the elevator slid open in front of her, Emmy finally realised they had reached their destination. She peeked inside.

  Emmy had never seen the insides of the executive elevator. Only one word could do it justice: opulence. The sheer size of the elevator’s interior awed Emmy; it was far larger than she expected. She felt the luxurious carpet, impossibly soft and thick, give way under the pressure of her shoes; a decadent, almost sinful extravagance.

  The walls, adorned with mirrors on both sides, generated a disorienting illusion of a limitless expanse. A giant glass window connected both sets of mirror, giving them a magnificent view of the virtual metropolis.

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  Why do executives use elevators, anyway? Couldn’t they simply teleport to the top floor and save themselves the trouble? I understand why they want us to ride them—for that pretense of “one big happy family.” But execs? If they’re all alone in their VIP elevators? What a waste of time. Do they just miss the inconveniences of the real world that much?

  She supposed the main purpose was to impress customers or visitors. Like giving a tour, instead of going straight to business. A display of wealth and a flex.

  As the elevator started its ascent, Emmy barely registered the smooth acceleration, her mind elsewhere. An unnerving silence pervaded the area, devoid of the usual mechanical sounds. Watching the cityscape’s gradual transformation during their ascent, she noted the elevator’s slow, deliberate pace. Nothing about this was about convenience.

  A few steps behind, Sandra stood still, her reflection in the polished glass showing an unimpressed face, the cool surface mirroring her stoicism. She calmly awaited the doors’ opening.

  After what must have been at least one minute, the elevator chime finally announced their arrival.

  Emmy looked at the panel. Top floor, reserved solely for the upper echelons of the company.

  What do they want? What do they know?

  Sandra stepped out and called for Emmy to follow.

  “This way.”

  She navigated the floor without hesitation and brought them to a frosted glass door. She presented her ID card and the light by the handle turned green. The door opened, and Sandra motioned for Emmy to enter.

  Inside, the walls gleamed with an unsettling metallic sheen, the sterile glow of the overhead lights reflecting off the glass panel that framed the room. The seats formed a perfect circle, symmetrical and impersonal, as if someone had designed the room with cold efficiency to strip away any sense of individuality.

  Half a dozen other employees waited inside. Emmy tried to identify them, but she could not. Everyone here had two things in common with her. One, they were all obvious victims of the glitch, their avatars matching their in-game characters, none of them homini. Two, they all had mismatching outfits for the avatar’s apparent gender.

  With her in the room, it was almost a perfect split between men in women’s outfits, and women in men’s outfits.

  Seeing the men fidgeting awkwardly in their chairs, avoiding eye contact, Emmy suddenly felt a lot better about her current predicament.

  She felt torn. She looked at their outfits with envy, but could clearly tell how uncomfortable they were.

  You know, one man’s trash... another woman’s treasure.

  One of the woman had her head down, scrolling through her phone with quick, nervous gestures. Emmy saw the same tension, the same tightness in everyone’s posture. As she entered the room, all eyes briefly turned to her.

  She took a shallow breath and walked to the table.

  The silence was thick, oppressive. She assumed everyone had millions of questions, but no one dared to say a word.

  She took a seat with no immediate neighbours and tried making herself as small as possible. Her shoulders tensed under the ill-fitting shirt. Every time she moved, the way it rubbed against her skin reminded her of how wrong it felt. The discomfort was a constant weight on her mind, but worse still was the anticipation gnawing at her.

  Sandra followed her in, standing by the door, her severe expression giving no hint of warmth, no suggestion that this was anything but a business-as-usual meeting. Moments later, a man entered. Mr Harwick, a higher-level corporate director. A wave of nausea swept over Emmy; the sight of Harwick, usually limited to critical discussions, all but confirmed her worst fears.

  Sandra gave him a curt nod. The room held its breath as Harwick’s eyes systematically counted them, the anticipation thick enough to cut with a knife.

  He walked to one end of the room, his polished shoes gleaming under the fluorescent lights. Clasping his hands in front of him, he scanned the room with a slow, calculating gaze. When his eyes flickered toward Emmy, her heart stopped, fingers clenching the edge of her chair.

  This is it. He knows. He’s going to ask me to out myself. He’s going to make me confess everything…

  “Good morning, everyone,” Harwick began, his voice as smooth and rehearsed as a marketing pitch. “You’re all here because of an... anomaly that has affected your virtual appearances. The glitch, as you know, has had various effects on your avatars. These changes, while unusual, have not impacted productivity. However—” his voice took on a sharper edge—“NEURASphere Corp. has an image to maintain. We expect all employees to maintain it, both in the real world and in the virtual space.”

  A wave of cold swept over her. Her fingers dug into the fabric of her slacks. She glanced down, feeling her breath quicken. The clothes—still clinging awkwardly to the wrong body—felt like a prison. Her mind raced.

  Their image? A professional company can’t have sylvani, dracan, burrovian or felinae working for them? Is this what this is about?

  Harwick continued. “Now, it has come to the attention of the higher-ups that some employees, because of the effects of this glitch, have been experiencing difficulty in conforming to company policy.” His eyes once again scanned the room, lingering on each of them one by one. She swore it lasted a beat longer on her than anyone else. “A failure to meet the professional standards expected of all personnel.”

  The tension in the room was suffocating. She could feel the collective unease of her colleagues, the shifting in chairs, the darting eyes. A tall noble burrovian woman cleared her throat awkwardly, glancing toward Sandra. But the supervisor remained silent, her hands clasped neatly in front of her.

  “Effective immediately,” Harwick said, drawing out each word with deliberate precision, “all of you in this room are required to follow the dress code of their currently presenting gender.”

  The room seemed to shift.

  Emmy blinked.

  Wait, what?

  Harwick’s tone remained level, almost robotic. “This change is not optional. After reviewing the company policy and contracts you have all signed, the board of directors is unanimous. As part of NEURASphere’s commitment to professionalism and appearance management, you will find a communication on your station by the time you return to your post with detailed instructions to switch your current attire to the new one based on your current avatar presentation. We understand this may be an uncomfortable request for some of you—” his eyes flicked around the room, as if daring anyone to speak—“but, this is in line with our commitment to maintaining a unified corporate image.”

  Her blood ran cold, then surged with a wave of heat that left her breathless.

  This is it?

  Finally, the hammering in her chest subsided, and her heart returned to its steady beat after a half-hour of frantic pounding.

  They’re making me… wear women’s clothes? They’re forcing me?

  She did not dare move a muscle, forced herself not to smile. But beneath her still expression, a wave of unbelievable relief washed over her.

  I don’t have to fight. No need to hide. It’s company policy—they’re forcing me to comply.

  She could barely breathe, the tension slipping out of her muscles. She had been bracing for something so much worse—some invasive, humiliating discussion about her identity, about who she was inside. Instead, she was being handed a gift. And all she had to do was comply.

  But then, as quickly as the relief came, a fresh wave of tension rolled in. She could let no one see how happy this made her. Not here. Not in front of Sandra, Harwick, and her colleagues. Emmy’s reputation needed to remain untarnished. If anyone knew—if anyone suspected how much she wanted this—they would ask questions. Question she was not ready to answer.

  The room was silent as Harwick continued with the technical details, but Emmy tuned him out. Inside, she was bursting with joy. It took everything she had, but she suppressed it all.

  The meeting dragged on, a dull drone of policy reminders and professionalism protocols. She was already picturing it—the clothes. The same ones she saw earlier on that Kindred dracan. How an outfit like this would finally fit her right. She could walk around the office in just a few minutes, dressed as herself, and no one would question it.

  And for once, she would fit.

  Harwick’s voice cut through her daydream, snapping her back to reality. “Remember, you will find the instructions on your terminal as you return to your desk. There will be no exceptions.”

  Sandra stepped forward, offering one of her stiff smiles. “Questions and concerns may be addressed to me or directly to the Human Resources department.”

  The meeting ended abruptly, the sound of chairs scraping against the floor as everyone stood up in unison. Emmy moved with the crowd, head down, her expression carefully neutral. Inside, though, her heart was racing for a whole additional reason.

  The other employees displayed the entire gamut of expressions on their face. Indifference, outrage, joy, relief, annoyance.

  But none dared to speak until My Harwick had left. Then Sandra finally stepped outside.

  The tall Noble burrovian woman raced after her, addressing her in a voice filled with hesitation that ill-suited her appearance.

  “Excuse me, Sandra? Do you think it’s okay if I take a few sick days over this? Until it’s fixed, maybe?”

  Sandra inspected every inch of the six-foot-two supermodel, likely still trying to reconcile the Amazonian presence with the quiet, stammering voice that lived inside that body.

  “Of course it’s fine, Elliot. It’s your sick days. Take them as you please.”

  Beneath that cold exterior, Sandra can be surprisingly kind.

  The burrovian let out a sigh of relief, shifting awkwardly on her long, statuesque legs, as if unsure how to balance in such an imposing frame. She bowed and silently nodded her thanks and hastily joined the others, climbing aboard the employees’ elevator.

  Emmy was on the verge of slipping in the elevator behind her, but Sandra stopped her and offered to let her ride back down together.

  Jamal and Priya were both visibly relieved upon her return to her desk, still in one piece.

  “What did they want?” Jamal asked.

  “They… want me and a few others to adhere to the company’s dress-code… the one that matches our new bodies.”

  “Oh… are you…? Will you be okay with this?”

  She wanted to smile, to let her friend know she would be more than okay. But she tried to give the impression of a forced smile.

  “Orders from way up top. It’s non-negotiable.”

  Jamal shook his head in disbelief.

  Priya offered, “If I can do anything to help…”

  Emmy turned to face her. “Thanks, Pri. I’ll be okay, I think.”

  She tried to make it a small, awkward smile, hoping it looked more like discomfort than the thrill racing through her veins. She tried her best to hold back any hint of joy.

  But, despite everything, the smile she gave her was genuine.

  Jamal mumbled, his brow furrowed. “It’s messed up.”

  She fought the urge to correct him. “Yeah,” she said quietly, “messed up.”

  But inside, her heart was screaming.

  This is the best day of my life.