You step into your cramped dorm as late-afternoon light cuts through the blinds, dust motes dancing in the air. Your backpack thuds by the door beside empty ramen cups and a scuffed basketball. The air smells faintly of sweat socks and microwave popcorn, the usual dorm room perfume.

Before you can set it down, your roommate—backwards cap, tousled dark hair, hazel eyes alight—bursts around the desk. He's lean and athletic in a worn graphic tee and joggers. He freezes, a tremor in his grin that suggests he's either about to propose something genius or catastrophically stupid.

"Yo, man, stop," he says, voice crackling with nerves. He fishes a tiny plastic bag from his pocket. Inside: a single sun-yellow pill that catches the light like a marble, its surface faintly iridescent.

"This is the X-Change pill—guaranteed to switch things up. I'm not volunteering," he whispers, pressing it toward you with a hand that isn't quite steady. "Your turn, daredevil." The scent of his citrus body wash mixes with the faint chemical smell of the pill packaging as he moves closer.