The black Mercedes moved through empty streets with the quiet hum of expensive engineering, its tinted windows reflecting neon signs and streetlights that painted brief, colorful streaks across the glass. I pressed my back against the leather seat, trying to disappear into its warmth while my skin burned with exposure.

Naked. Still completely naked in the back of a stranger's car, with only the darkness and her studied indifference as cover.

Seline hadn't offered clothing. Hadn't even acknowledged my state of undress as we'd walked through The Foundry's back corridors to a service exit I'd never seen before. She'd simply led the way with that fluid grace, speaking in clipped German to the driver: a broad-shouldered man who'd kept his eyes forward with professional discipline.

Now I watched Berlin slide past well after 3:30 AM: empty intersections, closed storefronts, the occasional taxi carrying late-night stragglers home. The city looked different from inside this cocoon of leather and climate control. Cleaner. More distant.

How does she know my name?

The question circled my mind like a vulture, picking at every interaction since I'd first stumbled into this new existence. Had she been watching? For how long? Since the warehouse surveillance job with Wolf? Since I'd first set foot in The Foundry?

Or longer?

A chill ran down my spine that had nothing to do with the air conditioning. What if she'd been there that first night? The night I'd met the stranger who'd somehow triggered all of this. The night everything had changed.

We'd crossed into another part of Neukölln, heading toward what looked like an industrial district. Warehouses and small factories lined the streets, their loading docks dark and empty. But as we pulled up to a bakery complex, something felt wrong.

The building looked normal enough: a standard commercial bakery with the familiar signage and delivery bays. But the loading dock we approached had subtle differences. Reinforced doors. Security cameras positioned with military precision. Motion sensors that tracked our approach with mechanical attention.

This wasn't just a bakery.

The Mercedes rolled to a stop, engine purring to silence. Through the window, I could see steam rising from vents, hear the distant hum of industrial equipment. The scent of baking bread drifted through the air vents, but underneath it lurked something else. Something clinical and sharp that made my pulse quicken.

~oO🐺Oo~

The service elevator descended far deeper than any bakery should go. When the doors opened, my breath caught.

This wasn't a basement. This was something from a fever dream of the future.

Pristine white corridors stretched in multiple directions, their walls lined with sealed observation windows that revealed sterile chambers beyond. The air hummed with the quiet efficiency of ventilation systems and the distant beep of monitoring equipment. Laboratory techs in white coats moved between rooms with purposeful precision, their footsteps muffled on polished floors.

"Here." Seline handed me a white lab coat and canvas slip-on shoes. Her tone was matter-of-fact, as if offering clothing to naked strangers in underground facilities was routine.

I shrugged into the coat, grateful for even this minimal coverage. The fabric was soft, expensive, and carried the faint scent of antiseptic.

We walked past chambers filled with equipment I couldn't identify: cylindrical tanks with soft blue lighting, banks of monitors displaying scrolling data, and what looked like medical beds surrounded by robotic arms. Everything gleamed under harsh fluorescent lighting.

Two corridors later, Seline stopped at a door marked with crisp black lettering: Dr. Seline Thorne, Director of Advanced Genomic Research.

Doctor.

The title explained the authority, but raised a thousand new questions.

She swiped a keycard, and the door clicked open.

~oO🐺Oo~

Seline's office was as spare as her manner: functional, efficient, stripped of anything that might distract from purpose. A sleek desk dominated the center, flanked by two chairs that looked expensive but uncomfortable. Filing cabinets lined one wall, their surfaces unmarked by the usual clutter of papers or personal items.

The only concession to comfort was a small refrigerator humming quietly in the corner.

"Please, sit down," Seline said, gesturing to one of the chairs. Her voice carried the same calm authority that had bent Klaus to her will, but softened now, almost conversational. "Make yourself comfortable, ja?"

Comfortable.

The word felt absurd given everything that had led to this moment, but I lowered myself into the chair anyway. The lab coat fell open slightly, and I tugged it closed, suddenly aware of how little it actually covered.

Seline moved to the refrigerator with fluid grace, extracting two bottles of water. The label caught the fluorescent light: Gerolsteiner. Expensive German mineral water, the kind that costs more than most people spend on lunch.

She set one bottle in front of me, then took the chair across the desk. Her movements were precise, deliberate, each gesture calculated to project calm competence.

"Please," she said, twisting the cap from her own bottle. "Drink. I imagine you’re a little dehydrated after Klaus's… enthusiasm."

I reached for the bottle, grateful to have something to do with my hands. The water was cold, crisp, exactly what my parched throat needed. As I drank, Seline settled back in her chair with the fluid grace I'd noticed before.

"I imagine you have questions," she began, "But let’s not rush, ja? Let me begin."

She paused, studying me with those intelligent dark eyes.

"Do you want to be addressed as Lana… or Alan?"

The question hit like a physical blow. Here, in this sterile underground facility, she was asking me to choose between identities that felt equally foreign and equally mine. I set the water bottle down carefully, buying time.

"Lana," I said finally. The word came out steadier than I felt. Alan had been the broken man on Martin's couch. Lana was... this. Whatever this was.

Seline nodded, as if she'd expected that answer. A flicker of satisfaction crossed her features: the look of someone whose careful calculations had paid off.

"Lana, then." She repeated my chosen name with deliberate emphasis, claiming it, making it real. "I imagine you’re wondering how you came to be here… and what, exactly, has happened to you."

She leaned forward slightly, hands clasped on the desk with the same precise movements I'd noticed before. Everything about her radiated controlled authority, the confidence of someone who had orchestrated this entire encounter down to the smallest detail.

“You’ve been part of something extraordinary,” Seline said, her tone soft but unwavering. “A project that represents what humanity could become.”

She paused, as if the words themselves carried weight.

"Project SYREN: Somatic Yield Re-construction and Experimental Neural-link. A synthesis of body and mind. The first true step toward identity conversion… total physical and psychological transformation."

The words hit me like ice water, each syllable dropping into my consciousness with crystalline clarity. A violent shiver ran down my spine, starting at the base of my skull and radiating outward through every nerve ending.

I gripped the edge of the desk as if holding myself together, my fingers pressing so hard against the metal that I could feel the blood draining from my knuckles.

Transformation.

The clinical, sanitized term for whatever nightmare I'd been living. The word hung in the air between us, impossibly calm and rational for something so fundamentally wrong.

“We’ve been developing technology capable of rewriting every aspect of human biology,” she continued, voice steady, imbued with the fervor of a true believer: someone who had found her calling in the impossible.

“DNA, bone structure, neural pathways… even scent markers and pheromone production. The capacity to become entirely new. To shed the limitations of your birth identity and embrace boundless potential.”

She paused, eyes dark and precise, cataloguing every micro-expression, every tell. When she spoke again, her tone softened, reverent.

“You are not merely wearing a different face, Lana. You are different. Every cell of your body has been rewritten from the ground up. Your very essence has been transformed: refined, elevated. Something beyond ordinary human bounds.”

My hands gripped the arms of the chair. "You've been watching me."

"For some time, yes." Seline's smile was patient, almost fond. "You presented an interesting case study. A man at a crossroads, ready for rebirth. The perfect candidate for a new beginning."

She rose, moving to the window that framed the pristine corridor, her posture calm and measured.

“Consider what you’ve gained, Lana. Youth. Beauty. The freedom to become anyone you choose. A gift we’ve afforded you… one most people can only dream of.”

The words triggered something deep in my mind, like a key turning in a lock I didn't know existed.

A flash of memory, sharp and sudden. A narrow side street off Kastanienallee, dimly lit by flickering streetlights that cast dancing shadows on wet pavement. The smell of rain on asphalt, the distant rumble of late-night traffic. A woman leaning against the graffiti-covered wall of a closed döner shop, apparently drunk but with eyes that were too focused, too calculating, too aware for someone who'd had too much to drink.

Those same dark, intelligent eyes that were watching me now.

The way she'd touched my arm when I'd gone to check up on her. The way her fingers lingered just a moment too long. The walk back to Martin's apartment, my steps unsteady, not from alcohol but from something else, something I couldn't quite identify.

The growing drowsiness that had settled over me like a heavy blanket after we fucked.

How perfectly she'd played her part, I realized with clarity. The way she made me forget: my unemployment, Sarah, my ex. My useless existence.

That night. All of it calculated. Every touch, every breathless whisper… bait for a trap I'd walked into willingly.

The night my old life had ended, and this nightmare had begun. My blood went cold as recognition crashed over me like a tidal wave. The shape of her face, the way she held herself, that voice...

My fingers dug into the fabric of my lab coat, knuckles white.

"You," I whispered, staring at her with dawning horror. "That night on Kastanienallee. You were her. The drunk woman."

Seline turned slowly, and for the first time, her composure wavered. A flicker: surprise, or perhaps something closer to admiration, passed across her features.

“Sehr gut,” she murmured. “I wondered when you would remember.”

~oO🐺Oo~

My hands trembled as I set the water bottle down, the plastic hitting the desk with a sharp click that seemed to echo in the sterile office. My heart hammered against my ribs, each beat sending waves of panic through my chest.

"You slipped me something?" The question emerged as little more than a breath.

“Nein,” Her tone clipped but composed. “I introduced you to… a possibility.”

She inclined her head slightly, eyes assessing, calm yet unyielding. “Methodology can wait. For now, we’ll begin with preliminary assessments.”

She moved toward the door with fluid purpose, then paused, extending her hand.

"Komm, Lana."

I stared at her outstretched hand, my legs suddenly unsteady beneath me. The lab coat felt thin as tissue paper, offering no real protection against the weight of her gaze. Around us, the facility hummed with quiet efficiency: ventilation systems, distant machinery, the soft beep of monitoring equipment that seemed to pulse in rhythm with my racing heart.

"I don't—" I started, then stopped.

What choice did I have? In this underground maze, surely with guards above and corridors stretching in every direction, resistance felt futile.

Seline's smile was patient, understanding. "Just some basic measurements. Nothing invasive. We need to document your current state for our records."

Her hand remained extended, steady and sure. After a moment that felt like hours, I reached out and let her fingers close around mine. Her skin was warm, surprisingly soft, but her grip carried unmistakable authority.

She led me from the office down another pristine corridor, our footsteps muffled on polished floors. The air was sharp and sterile, carrying a trace of cold metal and humming circuitry.

We stopped at a door marked Examination Suite 3. Seline swiped her card, and the door slid open with a soft whisper.

The room beyond was stark white, dominated by an examination table in the center. Overhead, surgical lights waited in perfect alignment. Along the walls, I caught glimpses of equipment I couldn't identify: sleek panels with digital displays, sensors mounted on articulated arms, cameras that tracked our movement with mechanical precision.

Restraint straps hung from the table's sides like sleeping serpents.

"Please," Seline said, her voice echoing slightly in the sterile space. "Make yourself comfortable on the table. Mantel… behind the door, ja?"

The fluorescent lights hummed overhead, casting everything in harsh, clinical clarity. Every surface gleamed. Every edge looked sharp enough to cut.

I hesitated at the threshold, my body refusing to move forward even as my mind calculated the impossibility of escape.

~oO🐺Oo~

My fingers found the lab coat's edges, clutching the thin fabric like armor. But armor against what? Her clinical detachment? The certainty that I was utterly powerless here?

I slipped the coat off and hung it on the designated hook. The air was precisely climate-controlled, but my skin felt exposed under the surgical lights. Every nerve ending seemed amplified.

"This is necessary for proper documentation," Seline said, calm and measured. "Baseline measurements are required… to track your progress accurately."

Progress... As if I were a science experiment.

I climbed onto the table. Leather shocked against my skin. Goosebumps spread despite the controlled temperature. My pulse thumped in my ears, a reminder that Alan was still watching, still trying to maintain some rational perspective.

Seline moved with practiced efficiency, tablet in hand. "Remarkable bone density adaptation," she murmured, tracing the curve of my spine. Her gaze lingered just slightly too long. I inhaled sharply, aware of her perfume mingling with antiseptic.

"Lift your arms," she instructed. I complied, muscles tense, every nerve on alert. Her fingers traced along my ribs, light but precise. Sparks of sensation shot through me.

"Fascinating," she whispered. "Integration… more complete than anticipated."

Her hands moved to my legs, brushing over femurs and calves. When her palm rested on my thigh, something shifted. Heat flared in my chest. Lana stirred, drawn to the attention, craving more despite the clinical setting.

No, I thought. This is wrong. This is insane.

But my pulse quickened anyway. Seline’s slight smile confirmed her observation. "Responses are exactly as we hoped," she said softly. "Neural integration… appears flawless."

Her touch remained clinical, but electricity surged along every nerve. She checked my pulse at the wrist. "Elevated, but within expected parameters." Fingers lingered just long enough. I caught myself biting back a shiver.

"I need to check your reflexes," she said, positioning herself between my legs. "Relax."

I tried. Muscles loosened against my will. Lana surged, drawn to the contact. Seline’s fingers pressed gently to my inner thighs. "Good muscle tone. Neural connectivity… excellent."

Heat pooled low in my belly. I forced my attention to the ceiling tiles, the humming equipment. But her palm climbed higher, brushing where sensitivity burned, scattering coherent thought.

"Sensitivity levels," she murmured. Fingers traced the crease of my hip. "The neural integration sometimes creates... unexpected responses."

Her fingers traced the crease where my thigh met my hip, and I couldn't suppress the soft sound that escaped my lips. My back arched slightly off the table, chasing that touch before I could stop myself.

Seline paused, dark eyes meeting mine with calculated interest.

"Interesting...."

She moved her hand deliberately, fingers brushing against my most sensitive skin with clinical precision. The contact sent shockwaves through me, and Lana responded immediately, hips shifting toward the touch, seeking more.

"Very responsive," Seline observed, her thumb applying gentle pressure. "The nerve ending reconstruction exceeded our projections."

More...

“Klaus didn’t satisfy you earlier,” she said calmly, a statement rather than a question. Shame and heat flushed through me, but my body continued betraying me.

"Focus on me," she commanded softly.

Tremors ran through muscles I couldn’t control. I met her gaze, nodding, my mind clinging to rationality even as Lana surged.

~oO🐺Oo~

The leather straps were warm against my skin as Seline methodically secured my wrists to the table. The restraints fit snugly: not tight enough to cut circulation, but firm enough that escape became impossible. Each buckle clicked into place, echoing slightly in the sterile chamber.

My pulse hammered against the leather at my wrists. A shiver ran through me. Lana stirred beneath my consciousness, drawn to the vulnerability, the complete surrender of control. I tried to steady my breathing, telling myself this was a procedure, not an indulgence.

“Ja,” Seline murmured, testing each strap with a gentle tug. “Perfect.”

Electricity shot through nerve endings that felt too responsive. I was completely exposed now, unable to move, unable to resist whatever came next. The surgical lights hummed overhead, harsh and unyielding.

From a cabinet beside the table, Seline retrieved a clear vial filled with translucent gel. The substance shimmered under the lights, almost alive.

“This will enhance neural sensitivity,” she explained, uncapping it with deliberate care. “Reactive polymers amplify nerve responses. We’ll be able to measure physiological reactions with far greater precision.”

The first touch of gel against my throat sent an involuntary gasp from my lips. It matched my body temperature instantly, tingling as it spread. My stomach clenched.

It’s just science. Just measurement.

Seline’s hands moved methodically over my chest, tracing the sensitive skin around my breasts. My back arched despite the restraints, a flush spreading across my skin. I caught my own shallow breathing, mind scrambling to claim control that slipped further with every touch.

“Immediate response… noted,” she murmured, making notes on her tablet. Her gaze lingered, clinical yet piercing.

She moved lower, spreading the gel across my stomach and inner thighs. Every brush of her fingers sent sparks that shot through me. A soft whimper escaped before I could stop it. I pressed my mind against reason, trying to retreat into Alan’s awareness, but Lana surged forward, craving the stimulation despite the clinical setting.

“Excellent,” Seline observed, her tone flat but precise. “Neural enhancement… performing as designed.”

Electrodes traced cool paths across my gel-coated skin: heart rate monitor, skin conductivity patches, pulse oximeter. Each connection sent subtle pulses, amplifying sensitivity. My pulse spiked; every movement felt magnified. I clenched my teeth to contain the whimper threatening to escape.

“Baseline readings,” Seline murmured, scanning her tablet. “Heart rate… 110. Skin conductivity… elevated. Pupil dilation… significant.”

The scientific words should have grounded me, but all I felt was heat pooling low in my belly, a surge of helpless desire I couldn’t suppress. I wrestled internally, trying to focus on the monitors, the room, anything besides the way her hands moved with exacting precision.

“Your neural pathways are remarkably integrated,” she said, fingers tracing a sensor wire along my ribs. “Lana’s responses and your consciousness, Alan, existing in perfect symbiosis.”

I froze, a cold dread mixing with the unwanted warmth.

She knew. She understood both sides of me: the battle for control, the way Lana surged forward whenever pleasure overcame reason.

“Fascinating…” she whispered, eyes flicking between me and the data. “A perfect synthesis of two minds.”

I swallowed hard, trying to ground myself.

This is science. Just measurement.

But my body betrayed me, arching and trembling, my pulse betraying every inch of my involuntary response.

~oO🐺Oo~

From her lab coat pocket, Seline retrieved a small device, sleek white polymer, no bigger than her palm. A single LED glowed yellow, pulsing gently.

"Neural response amplifier," she explained, tapping her tablet. The LED shifted from yellow to blue. "Paired to monitor your reactions in real-time."

She positioned it carefully against the gel-slicked skin, her movements precise and clinical despite the intimate nature of the contact. The device made contact with a soft, almost inaudible click.

The first touch sent immediate shockwaves cascading through every nerve ending, the sensation amplified tenfold by the conductive gel that coated my skin. The electrical impulses raced along pathways I'd never possessed before, triggering responses I couldn't comprehend.

I gasped against the restraints, the sound emerging as something breathless and distinctly feminine, my heart hammering against ribs that felt too small, too delicate.

The leather straps creaked as involuntary tremors seized muscles that weren't mine to control, every fiber of this alien nervous system lighting up like a circuit board under Seline's careful observation.

Focus, Alan, I told myself. It’s data. It’s science. Control what you can.

"Starting at minimal settings," Seline murmured, watching her screen.

The device pulsed subtly, each vibration amplified by the gel into lightning that raced through my nervous system. Lana responded instantly, hips rolling against the sensation, breath ragged. My consciousness struggled against the flood, a faint tremor of panic threading through my awareness.

"Heart rate… 135 and climbing," Seline noted clinically. "Excellent neural integration."

The pulses intensified. Lana’s control surged; her instinctive movements left me helpless. I felt both fascination and terror.

I’m not doing this. She’s doing this to me, I reminded myself, clinging to fragments of reason.

Waves of sensation cascaded through me: each pulse, each ripple of the gel magnified beyond comprehension. I tried to anchor to my perspective: observing, cataloging, surviving, but Lana’s responses claimed the muscles that no longer obeyed.

"This is… fascinating," she whispered in our shared consciousness.

I shivered, heart racing. Part of me was thrilled at the intensity, part recoiled at the total exposure. We were completely helpless, reduced to measured data points scrolling across Seline’s screen.

"Increasing amplitude," Seline announced, fingers dancing across her tablet. The device surged, transforming gentle pulses into insistent waves. Lana cried out, back arching against the leather restraints.

I tried to detach, reminding myself: It’s only an observation. Only observation.

"Beautiful," Seline murmured. "Heart rate… 158. Neural integration is complete."

Lana’s hips rolled with abandon. I winced, aware of every movement, every gasp, every spike in her pulse. My mind clung to Alan’s rationality, noting the meticulousness of Seline’s data collection even as my body betrayed me.

Seline stepped closer, eyes flicking between me and her readings. Her composed mask had slipped slightly, a subtle warmth beneath her clinical gaze.

"Let go, Alan," she commanded softly, voice steady, measured. “Show me… what you can become.”

Lana spiraled over the edge, each wave of sensation pulling her taut. My consciousness clung to whatever threads I could grasp: her heartbeat, the spikes on Seline’s monitor, the rhythm of each tremor. Every nerve screamed, but I kept watch, cataloging, resisting the urge to dissolve entirely into the pleasure.

Her back arched against the leather. The gel and device amplified every twitch, every shiver. I felt it in my chest, stomach, and along every muscle. Lana’s body spoke in a language I could only partially understand.

Each inhale, each shudder, each gasp was magnified. Antiseptic mixed with our warmth in the air. The hum of machinery became a rhythm synced to our pulses. I sensed Lana’s surrender in the rolling of her hips, the dig of her fingers into the leather.

Time stretched. Waves arrived with precision, pulling Lana further from conscious restraint. Her muscles tensed, her eyes flickered, breath stuttered. I floated in the paradox: wanting to intervene, yet unable to command a single part of my body.

I counted spikes on the monitor: heart rate, conductivity, neural feedback, rising as her body responded. I desperately clung to self-awareness, tethered to reality, while Lana claimed dominion over instinct.

The waves slowed slightly, leaving shudders in their wake. Every nerve screamed, every heartbeat echoed. On Seline’s screen, data confirmed the intertwining of two minds in one body.

I floated in the aftermath of Lana’s surrender, weightless yet tethered, a conscious observer in a body already gone beyond control.

~oO🐺Oo~

My eyes flickered open. Blinking against the soft, overly bright light, I felt the faint pressure of the hospital robe against my skin. Not the sterile white I remembered from typical wards, but a muted cream, soft, expensive.

Every nerve ending still hummed faintly, a ghost of the intensity from earlier, sending shivers along my spine.

I stayed still, letting my senses take it in. The room was quiet, the hum of machinery and filtered ventilation punctuating the silence. Monitors lined one side, small screens flickering with vital signs: heart rate, blood pressure, pulse oximetry. My pulse jumped as I glanced at the numbers, recognizing my own body, yet unfamiliar in its responsiveness.

I flexed my fingers, felt the gentle stiffness of muscles still recovering, and for a moment simply floated inside myself.

My thoughts scrambled.

That… that had really just happened. Every nerve, every reflex, every surge of sensation, now just lingering echoes. Lana’s instinct had faded, and I was# here, surveying the aftermath.

I could feel the shift in perspective: her body, yes, but my mind in control, weighing every sensation. The softness of the robe, the smooth bed beneath me, even the faint hum of equipment pressed against my awareness. There was a clinical calm to it, but also something… unsettling.

Too sterile, too precise.

Too quiet.

I lifted my head slightly. The room stretched in clean lines, too pristine for a hospital: cream walls, minimal furniture, a chair in the corner. Monitors blinked gently, each a tiny pulse of controlled information. The air smelled faintly of antiseptic, but mingled with something else… perfume? Something familiar.

And then I saw her.

Seline, seated in the corner with that same unshakable calm. She didn’t rise, didn’t move. Just observed.

“Ah,” she said softly, voice carrying across the quiet room, warm yet precise. “You are finally awake.”