Department Transfer TG

Daniel Morgan had never taken HR seriously. He joked too much in meetings, let his sarcasm leak into emails, and thought a grin could paper over anything. It worked—until it didn’t.

The letter arrived on heavy paper. Notice of Formal Misconduct Hearing. His boss, Caldwell, didn’t mince words: “One more step out of line and you’re gone. Unless, of course, you’re willing to transfer.”

Daniel swallowed his pride. “Fine. I’ll transfer.”

Caldwell slid the form across the desk. Daniel barely skimmed the fine print before signing. Anything was better than unemployment.

The van picked him up two mornings later. He expected a dreary cubicle in another department. Instead, the driver escorted him through glass doors embossed with looping cursive: Intimates Division.

Inside, the air smelled faintly of perfume and plastic. Posters lined the walls—billboards of models in lingerie, all smiling, all flawless. Daniel’s stomach lurched.

A woman in a pencil skirt introduced herself as Ms. Reyes, Division Manager. “Congratulations,” she said. “You’ve been reassigned to our Modeling Department. Effective immediately.”

Daniel blinked. “Modeling? There’s been a mistake. I work in logistics.”

Reyes smiled with corporate precision. “Not anymore. You signed the agreement. Clause 7b: ‘Employee will undergo any and all modifications required to fulfill departmental role.’” She slid a copy across the table, Daniel’s scrawl at the bottom.

His pulse hammered. “I thought I was transferring to another office.”

Reyes folded her hands. “This is another office.” She gestured, and two attendants in white coats appeared. “Shall we begin?”

The “process” took weeks, though Daniel’s memory of it blurred into a sequence of restraints, machinery, and pain disguised as care.

First came the sculpting. He was strapped to a chair while cold gel was spread across his torso, reshaping muscle into curves. Needles hissed chemicals into his veins, softening, redistributing, until his chest swelled with unnatural weight. His voice cracked into higher registers he didn’t recognize.

Next came facial reconstruction. A mask clamped tight while lasers burned and re-knit bone. When they removed it, the mirror reflected a stranger: high cheekbones, plush lips, eyes rimmed with lashes too long.

Then hair. Blonde, cascading, tugged from his scalp as though it had always belonged.

Finally, voice modulation. A machine pressed against his throat, humming until his protests emerged melodic, delicate.

By the end, he could no longer say “I’m Daniel” without sounding like a parody.

They handed him his first uniform: lingerie. Lace, straps, silk that clung to his reshaped body.

Daniel refused. He tore the set from his bed, hurled it at the wall.

Reyes entered without knocking. “Your contract stipulates cooperation. Noncompliance results in termination without severance. And, of course, your transformation is permanent. If you leave, you’re unemployed and unrecognizable. Do you want the world to meet you like this without income?”

He sank into the mattress, numb. An attendant slid the lingerie back into his hands.

The first photoshoot felt like a nightmare. Cameras circled him, lights hot on his skin. Photographers barked instructions: “Chin up. Arch more. Smile like you mean it.” His body obeyed, despite the screaming in his mind.

The images appeared in catalogs within days. He saw himself—no, her—posed on glossy pages, every angle perfected, every trace of Daniel erased. Colleagues from his old department circulated the ads online, joking about the “new talent.” None recognized him.

Every shoot deepened the fissure between who he had been and who he was forced to be. The lingerie grew skimpier, the poses more suggestive. The company’s marketing hailed him as “Eva,” a rising star.

Daniel never chose the name.

His daily routine solidified into something mechanical.

Mornings began with makeup applied by professionals who cooed over his “flawless complexion.” Midday meant wardrobe fittings, measuring tape tugging across hips and chest. Afternoons were photoshoots, one after another, until the flash of bulbs left him half-blind. Evenings ended with media training, rehearsing interviews in a voice he despised.

“Tell them you’ve always dreamed of this career,” Reyes instructed. “Authenticity sells.”

“But I haven’t,” Daniel whispered.

She smiled. “Say it anyway.”

And he did.

The psychological toll pressed heavier than the physical. At night, he lay awake, tracing outlines of a body that no longer felt like his. The lingerie never came off; seams fused lightly with skin, as if the company wanted its product to be inseparable from the model. He tugged, clawed, but fabric only tightened, punishing resistance.

The mirror mocked him. When he tried to imagine his old face, the details slipped away. The crooked nose, the scar on his chin—gone. Only Eva’s reflection stared back, practiced and photogenic.

Sometimes he whispered “Daniel” into the dark, desperate to hear it aloud. The name sounded wrong, a foreign word in a borrowed mouth.

Months passed. Campaigns launched. Eva appeared on billboards, bus stops, online ads. Daniel’s inbox filled with fan messages, contracts, sponsorships. He was famous now, but only as someone else.

One afternoon, Reyes called him into her office.

“You’ve done well,” she said, sliding a glossy magazine across the desk. Eva’s face filled the cover. “Our sales are up thirty percent. The board is pleased. We’d like to renew your contract for five more years.”

Daniel’s hands trembled. “No. I can’t do this anymore. I want out.”

Reyes arched a brow. “Out? And do what? Walk into the world like this, unemployed, unprotected? You’re not Daniel anymore. Daniel signed away his future. Eva is all that remains.”

He swallowed, throat tight.

Reyes leaned closer, voice low. “You should be grateful. You’re beautiful. Immortalized in print. People would kill for this.”

He wanted to scream, to flip the desk, to demand his life back. Instead, he nodded, signing the renewal with Eva’s delicate hand.

That night, he lay in bed beneath studio lights, lingerie clinging like skin. The cameras never truly turned off. He knew the footage would be cut into behind-the-scenes reels, sold as authenticity.

He closed his eyes and tried again to picture Daniel. A man in a wrinkled shirt, laughing at his own jokes. A man who thought misconduct was harmless.

But memory faltered. The only image left was Eva: flawless, smiling, eternally posed.

Somewhere deep inside, Daniel screamed.

But the world only saw Eva, and Eva never stopped smiling.