“Good morning, Satsuki. As of today, you will commence your new existence within this facility.”
A glacial voice resonated through the room, dragging Ryuji back into consciousness.
As his visual field blurred into focus, a sharp irritation surged within his chest; he had no concept of his coordinates, nor any understanding of why he had been interred here.
He found himself forced into a chair at the exact center of an unfamiliar room. Standing before him was a man clad in a sterile white lab coat.
“What the hell is this…? Who do you think you are, locking me away in a place like this?”
“This is a structural component of the corrective program assigned to your transgressions, Ryuji-san… or rather, Satsuki-san.”
“Ha? Don’t screw with me! I’m a man. Don’t use that disgusting, effeminate name on me!”
The man’s expression remained entirely frictionless, unbothered by Ryuji’s shouting as he continued his flat, clinical explanation.
“Taking your criminal tendencies and behavioral pathology into calculation, this corrective measure is deemed mandatory for your rehabilitation. This program strips away your former identity, mapping you instead to the role and status of ‘Satsuki’ to execute your daily re-education.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me…! Why the hell should I submit to that?!”
“Your historical baseline indicates a pattern of violence and a profound deficit of respect toward women. This regimen forces you to experience the physical and social reality of female existence, driving internal contrition and systematic behavioral adaptation.”
Ryuji balled his knuckles into white-hot fists, the urge to rip the room apart burning in his throat. Yet, pinned down by the man’s unblinking, absolute gaze, he swallowed the words.
“This is a non-negotiable protocol. Any defiance will trigger immediate punitive friction. This is for your own orientation, and an absolute necessity for the safety of the social order.”
When the clinical briefing concluded, Ryuji fell into a dead silence.
In stark contrast to the rage festering beneath his ribs, a heavy, paralyzing sense of absolute impotence began to saturate his limbs. There was no escape vector from this architecture. He knew, with a creeping dread, that the physical reality of this “correction” would soon impose its full mass upon him.
The following morning, the enforcement of “Satsuki’s” daily routine commenced.
Every single morning, the moment his eyelids flickered open, he was driven to stand before the full-length mirror erected in the corner of the featureless room. He was commanded to slide his limbs into the designated female underwear and garments.
A surveillance camera looked down from the corner of the ceiling with a cold, mechanical eye. There was no blind spot.
“…Dammit…”
Muttering a low, ragged curse, Ryuji reluctantly extended his fingers toward the brassiere. The fragile lace and thin, delicate design repeatedly drove home the realization that this armor did not belong to his native frame.
Disoriented by his first encounter with this constrictive garment, he navigated the cloth through clumsy trial and error, trying to force it into alignment with his flesh. Reaching behind his shoulder blades to fasten the hooks, his unaccustomed fingers suffered a fine tremor born of frustration, failing the alignment time and time again.
“Shit… why do I have to bear this…”
Catching a glimpse of his silhouette in the glass, a violent impulse to avert his gaze seized him.
The glass reflected long, fine strands of hair, a facial architecture that softened into feminine lines, and—accentuated further by the tight pull of the fabric—narrow, fragile shoulders and a soft, yielding curve of the waist. An entirely foreign “female” entity had taken up residence in the reflection.
Next, his fingers moved to the panties.
Swallowing a wave of revulsion, he stepped into the leg holes, slowly pulling the fabric up his thighs. The exact moment the material sealed against the intimate skin of this anatomy, the sensory overload of occupying a female vessel rushed into his nervous system with agonizing clarity. He let out a sharp, shallow gasp.
“Is this… truly the baseline of my flesh now…?”
An nameless, physical dissonance intertwined with a deep shame, triggering a strange, erratic pulse deep within his chest.
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