Warm steam from the hot water filled almost the entire space of the expensive, if not downright luxurious bathroom in room 5012 of the Mumbai Palace hotel, which Robert Gross had rented for his temporary stay.
The negotiations, so kindly pushed through for his oil company by the U.S. government itself, had ended three hours ago with champagne toasts, firm handshakes, and promises of ten-year contracts. Everything had gone almost suspiciously smoothly… yet somehow these fortunate deals had wrung the very last strength out of him.
He exhaled wearily, closed his eyes, feeling the gentle heat of the enveloping hot water that now covered almost his entire body, a body still almost completely covered in hair that had already taken on a silvery tint in places. The low hum of the air conditioner could be heard through the wall, the distant city noise muffled by thick glass, and his own heavy breathing.
Robert opened his eyes and slowly ran his hand across his chest, feeling how the currents of water rushed through the thick hair beneath the surface, slipping between the strands like thin, curling stalks. Once, they had been thick and chestnut-bright. Now… that pale, aging color no longer surprised him.
“Goddamn it,” he rasped into the dimness. “Here’s old age for you, old buddy… Not even any joy left from a successful deal… How I wish I could be young again…”
And as if in response, beside his left ear, closer to the tiled wall, he heard a quiet but almost tangible whisper in Hindi:
“Yauvan kī kīmat hotī hai…” (Youth… always demands a price…) something breathed in a woman’s voice, warm like the touch of humid air.
The whisper did not sound threatening. It was calm, like dry wind passing between temple columns, yet goosebumps still raced across Robert’s skin even though the water was scalding.
He whipped around and saw no one. Only steam and the soft gurgling of water spilling over the edge of the tub.
“What…?” he muttered, frowning. “What the hell…”
No one. Just the same bubbling water, the hum of the air conditioner, and faint, muffled chatter of neighbors in some other room.
Robert sat motionless for a few more seconds, listening to the suddenly too-thick silence. Then he exhaled through his nose, shook his head as if chasing away an illusion, and with a tired grunt rose from the tub.
Water streamed heavily down his body, dripping from the thick hair on his chest and stomach, leaving dark trails across the tiles. He reached for the large white bathrobe embroidered with the hotel’s golden emblem, pulled it off its hook, and slipped it over his shoulders.
The fabric crackled with freshness, then immediately absorbed the moisture of his skin. The robe wrapped snugly around his broad, heavy frame, emphasizing his belly and wide shoulders. Robert tied the belt with a practiced, sharp tug—as if trying to shake off all the thoughts clawing at him. Thoughts of aging. Thoughts of a mind that suddenly felt… unreliable.
Then he froze.
Something was wrong. Something was definitely wrong just off to the side, somewhere at the edge of his field of vision. He didn’t dare look immediately.
A beat passed. Then another. The taste of anxiety gathered in his throat.
Finally, hesitant and slow, he turned his head. To the large mirror in its faux-gold frame.
“What the…” he said, staring at mirror that looked as almost like a three-dimensional, hyper-realistic television screen where the movements of his mouth were mirrored by a young woman standing in the same half-turn, looking straight at Robert with faint fright in her eyes.
A second. Another. A third.
They stared at each other without moving. One stood in the luxurious bathroom of India’s finest hotel; the other in a women’s toilet somewhere in the slums of Mumbai, against a cracked wall where faded, peeling paint slid off the concrete in strips. The only light came from a dim ceiling bulb that flickered constantly, giving off a dry crackle and illuminating her the way one might be lit in a jammed frame of a documentary about poverty.
Finally, he exhaled heavily and shook his head. The woman did the exact same thing. Her dark hair trembled with the movement exactly as the short, damp strands at Robert’s temples quivered.
Robert stepped closer to the mirror. She did too.
He clenched his fist. She did the same.
“What the…” he began, trying to grab onto any logical explanation, yet froze when the girl’s lips moved exactly with his own, like some TikTok mimicry brought to life.
His brow twitched. Hers followed.
He inhaled sharply and she jolted a bit, as if surprised by her own breath.
“Alright, this isn’t funny anymore!” he said firmly, making one last step toward the sink and watching the girl… or rather, watching her heavy breasts press tight against the thin, faded sari fabric. They swayed with her movement in a way no prerecorded footage ever could.
Her bare feet shuffled softly on the rough concrete floor, and Robert heard a new sound for the first time: the faint, nervous tapping of heels on stone. And with it came muffled voices, similar to the ones behind his hotel wall, yet somehow… different.
He leaned on the sink, staring wide-eyed first at her, then at the soft swell in her neckline that bounced with every tiny motion he made, responding to him as if… as if it all belonged to him.
“This is insane…” he whispered, though the moment the words left his mouth he heard them split into two tones at once: his low, rough male voice and a higher, slightly cracked female one layered over it.
He blinked. She blinked in perfect sync. Slowly, already knowing what would happen, he leaned closer to the glass. She did the same. The heavy breasts immediately swung forward, stretching the thin, faded fabric almost to tearing point. And this time Robert, even though he was still standing here in his plush white hotel robe, actually felt his own chest grow suddenly heavier, filling with warm, soft weight. The nipples hidden under the terrycloth fabric stiffened so sharply he let out an involuntary soft gasp.
“Fuck… what… what is this…” he rasped.
He could feel that weight. He could feel how the old sari fabric was no longer draping over someone else’s breasts but was pulling tight around his own body, cinching strangely at the waist, shoulders, hips.
“Lakshmi! Are you coming out or not?”
A woman’s voice, close, husky, called out as if right beside him. Robert spun around, only to see the same empty bathroom.
Yet as he turned, something long and heavy flicked across his back, as though a length of woven rope were attached to his scalp… strands embedded into his hair. And on his chest something tugged forward again, stretching that frail sari cloth in an unmistakable, downward pull that no longer belonged to imagination.
“Lakshmi!” the voice repeated, louder now, tinged with annoyance. “Are you asleep in there? The water’s already cold, the children are waiting!”
“W–w–what…” Robert whispered, feeling under his palms not smooth marble anymore but something rougher, worn… cheap.
He squeezed his eyes shut to steady himself.
At that exact moment a harsh smell slammed into his senses so sharply he opened his eyes as if shocked by electricity.
It wasn’t the scent of the hotel nor the faint perfume absorbed into his robe, nor the clean sting of chlorinated water.
No.
It was the smell of dampness. Of hot, stale sweat. Of heavy dust baked into the air.
Robert’s eyes flew open, only to see that nothing had changed in the reflection.
The young, busty, obviously poor Indian girl still stood there, watching him with the eerie precision of an actor who already knew every move her partner would make.
Except…
Where polished marble and crystal lighting should have stood around him, rough, cracked cement walls surrounded him instead, gray and cold, soaked with decades of grime and humidity.
The floor beneath his bare feet was uneven, gritty, tiny cracks filled with dust.
And above him a dim bulb flickered weakly.
Robert instinctively pressed his palms to his chest, trying to calm the heart that felt ready to tear right out of him.
This was a mistake.
The palms were small now, with thin fingers and slightly rough pads from daily washing and scrubbing dishes. They landed on soft round shapes and the forms responded with a warm, living heaviness that bloomed through the whole body. The chest trembled softly with each breath and Robert froze as he felt the yielding softness under his fingertips, felt the nipples react instantly to the touch. And the next moment a new, unfamiliar wave rolled through him from belly to throat.
“Lakshmi!” the voice called again from behind the door, sharper this time.
Robert gasped quietly.
The sound came out high, soft, with a slight rasp of someone tired from sleep and children’s cries. He pulled his hands away, yet the sensations stayed: the tugging downward weight, the subtle sway with each inhale, the warmth spreading from the center of his chest up to his collarbones and down to his stomach.
He took one careful step back, closed his eyes and begged every god he could name for this to be a delusion. Then his hip swayed with the movement and he nearly lost balance. The reminder was sharp and undeniable. His weight had shifted. The pelvis was wider, softer, the center of gravity dropped lower, down where the hips rounded smoothly into full cheeks wrapped in the thin sari fabric. The cloth slid lightly with each movement, brushing against the skin in a faint, teasing stroke.
“Lakshmi!” The door finally swung open, letting in the voice along with shafts of sunlight and a short woman of about forty with damp temples from the heat, strong arms, and the face of someone who lived in permanent hurry. She wore a faded salwar; the smell of spices trailed behind her like smoke.
She paused in the doorway, one hand braced on the frame, and gave Lakshmi a look that mixed irritation with concern.
“What are you dawdling for?” she asked, squinting slightly. “We need water brought in, the little ones are waiting to wash.”
Robert stood frozen, staring at her with wide-open eyes as though she were a ghost.
The air was hot, thick with dust; distant smells of cooking rice, open sewers, and wet cloth drifted through it. Somewhere beyond the door came a child’s cry, the clack of a plastic bucket, a neighbor woman cursing in Hindi. Everything felt far too real, too solid compared to the thoughts still screaming in his head that he must still be in his suite wearing that expensive robe.
But no. It wasn’t a robe. It was a sari clinging to his stomach. Hair braided into a thick plait brushed against his ass and tugged noticeably at the back of his scalp. Breasts settled heavily under their own weight. Small, thin, working fingers trembled as though chilled to the bone.
“I…” he breathed out, and this time he heard the high, unmistakably female voice clearly coming from his own mouth.
The woman’s expression softened just a fraction. She sighed, rolling her eyes.
“Sunstroke or what? Hurry up, Lakshmi, we don’t have time to stand around. Rupal’s already left and I can’t manage alone. Come on, move it.”
She waved her hand and walked off, leaving the door ajar. Through the opening poured the ordinary morning clamor of the slums: clanging metal basins, children’s laughter, a mango vendor shouting from his cart, the distant hoot of a train. The sounds of the price Lakshmi had paid for youth.