Dane sprawled across his sagging couch, a lukewarm soda can dangling precariously in his grip.
His apartment—a cluttered shrine to procrastination—reeked of stale pepperoni and unwashed laundry, the TV's infomercial hum a dull buzz in the background.
His real focus, though, was the garish video game case he'd scored from a grimy discount bin earlier that day.
The title screamed at him: The Masochistic Adventures of Diana.
He couldn't look away.
The cover featured a woman who demanded attention.
Her long blonde hair flowed like liquid gold, framing a face with piercing blue eyes that cut through the chaos.
A sleek pink dress clung to her form, its fabric shimmering with a subtle bow at the hip, elegant yet edged with danger.
Behind her towered a crew of fantasy woman.
Amazonian, Tomboy, Milf, Another Milf with horns, A goth looking succubus—tall, brawny, imposing, and a few sporting unmistakable bulges in their armor.
Dane barked a laugh, nearly spilling his drink.
"What kind of freak show is this?" he snorted, tossing the case onto the coffee table.
"Masochistic Adventures? Sounds like a recipe for therapy bills. Who'd even touch this garbage?"
He smirked, leaning back, oblivious to the tremor rippling through the floor.
The quake hit like a sledgehammer.
The soda can toppled, rolling under the couch as the room groaned.
"Oh, shit—" Dane started, but the earth bucked again, harder.
His overloaded bookshelf—groaning under the weight of dog-eared novels and overdue notices—teetered.
He lunged, but too late.
The last image burned into his mind was the blonde woman's icy stare from the Diana cover as the shelf crashed down, burying him in a splintered avalanche.
Darkness swallowed him.
Then, a whisper of wind and a chorus of birds.
Dane's consciousness clawed its way back, greeted by the rustle of leaves and a sky so vivid it hurt his eyes.
The air carried a crisp pine scent laced with wildflower sweetness, and the ground beneath him was a plush carpet of grass.
For a fleeting moment, he wondered if he'd stumbled into some cosmic waiting room.
Then he moved.
Something sleek and snug encased his body.
He sat up, heart lurching, and stared.
A pink dress hugged his frame, its fabric smooth and form-fitting, a delicate bow perched at his hip.
It was her dress—the one from the game cover.
His hands—slender, with nails that gleamed like polished glass—flew to his chest.
Curves.
Real, soft curves.
Panic ignited.
"What the actual hell?" he squeaked, the sound a melodic shock that wasn't his voice.
He clapped a hand over his mouth, eyes wide.
That wasn't him.
His fingers traced his face—high cheekbones, full lips, a jawline too refined.
His heart thundered as he scrambled to his feet, the dress swaying with an unnatural grace.
He stood beneath a towering tree, its gnarled roots sprawling like the bones of the earth.
A forest unfurled around him, alive with golden light and the murmur of a nearby river.
His mind spun—earthquake, bookshelf, that damn game.
Was this death?
A curse?
He stumbled toward the water, driven by a desperate need to see.
The river gleamed like molten glass as he dropped to his knees.
"Just look," he muttered, his new voice a haunting melody.
"You're still you, right?"
He leaned over, breath catching.
The reflection wasn't Dane.
Long blonde hair cascaded over his shoulders, shimmering in the sunlight.
Those piercing blue eyes from the cover stared back, set in a face both striking and alien—sharp features, rosy lips, an elegance that mocked him.
The pink dress accentuated a tall, statuesque figure, every curve a testament to his transformation.
He touched his cheek; the reflection mirrored him, her expression a mask of dread.
"No. No, no, no!" he gasped, yanking at his hair—silky, endless, and stubbornly attached.
He clawed at the dress, half-expecting his old body to emerge like a bad magic trick.
Instead, smooth legs and a form that screamed Diana met his frantic hands.
The name crashed into him: Diana Lavelia.
The heroine he'd mocked, now he was her.
He slumped back, the dress pooling around him like a taunt.
The river flowed on, indifferent, while a bird's trill sliced through the silence.
He glared at the trees, resisting the urge to hurl a rock.
"Okay, Dane," he growled, forcing calm.
"You're in some fantasy hellhole. You're in a dress. You're her. Deal with it."
It wasn't remotely okay, but losing it wouldn't undo this nightmare.
He rose, brushing grass from the dress with a scowl.
The forest loomed, promising danger—and those bulgy amazons, no doubt.
If this was The Masochistic Adventures of Diana, he wasn't ready to face its cast.
Not yet.
Not like this.
But staying put wasn't an option.
Faint voices drifted from the trees, pulling him forward.
He cast one last glance at his reflection—tall, elegant, and a stranger's face—and stepped toward the sound.
Diana Lavelia was about to enter this world.
And Dane was already plotting his escape from her skin.