Eshan never asked for a new name.
He had always been ordinary—twenty-five, coding for a living, quiet evenings filled with books and black coffee. Life wasn’t remarkable, but it was his. Until it was taken.
It began with a contract—a job offer too good to be true. A private research lab. High pay. Confidential work. No phones, no internet, no questions. He signed it, hungry for change.
And change came.
Eshan was told he had been selected for “Project Chrysalis.” He laughed at first. But the injections came anyway. Then the dietary changes, the therapy sessions, the voice training, the daily drills. He was no longer allowed to refer to himself as “he.” His reflection changed day by day—sharper cheekbones, shrinking frame, the slow betrayal of testosterone.
“You’ll adjust,” they said, clinical and cold.
“You’ve been selected for a higher purpose.”
“You’re becoming who you were meant to be.”
But Eshan didn’t feel chosen—he felt rewritten.
He was given a new name: Elira.
A new voice, pitch-trained and sweet.
New clothes, new gestures, new scripts to memorize for “future integration.”
He resisted, at first. Screamed. Refused to speak. Starved himself. But the system was patient. It punished rebellion with isolation and rewarded obedience with comfort.
One evening, standing before a mirror, Eshan—Elira—saw someone else. Delicate features, long dark hair, a soft expression that had learned to hide the scream beneath the skin.
But the scream was still there.
“I don’t want this.”
“You don’t need to. It’s already done.”
Days bled into months. The project neared completion. She now walked, spoke, even dreamed like Elira. But somewhere inside, a piece of Eshan still lived—buried, breathless, waiting.