The bell above SwapDesire’s door jingled—not cheerful, but low and resonant, like a struck tuning fork against my ribs. Rain streaked the window behind me, blurring the neon sign into bleeding halos of rose and gold. Vivian didn’t look up from the ledger on the counter. She wore a charcoal pencil skirt, a silk blouse unbuttoned just enough to catch the light, and heels that clicked like a metronome counting down to something inevitable.\n\n"You’re late," she said, voice honey over gravel. Her eyes lifted—dark, amused, knowing. Not about my appointment. About the text I’d deleted three times before sending: I think I want to feel him again.\n\nShe slid a small obsidian disc across the marble. "Place your palm flat. Breathe in. Don’t lie to the stone—it hears your pulse before you do."\n\nMy hand trembled. The disc warmed instantly, then pulsed—once, twice—glowing faint amber. Vivian’s smile deepened. "Ah. So it’s *her* you’re really here for." She leaned forward, perfume wrapping around me like smoke. "Or… would you rather try *mine* first? Just for tonight. See what it feels like to be wanted—*truly* wanted—without having to ask?"\n\nThe disc flared crimson.\n\nHer fingertip hovered over a brass lever beside the door marked 'ANCHOR'.\n\nDo I press it—and step into her skin, her confidence, her hunger?\nDo I grab the disc and run—before I forget my own name?\nOr do I whisper, Show me him—and risk remembering everything I’ve spent years unfeeling?