Our TG Caption

The elevator was sterile, mirrored, and quiet—except for the staccato click of Deeanne Beach’s heels and the occasional buzz of ascending floors. She checked her phone. No signal. No surprise. The higher one went in the Hack Gray building, the quieter the air became, as if even wireless signals learned to whisper.

Deeanne’s reflection stared back at her from the elevator doors: severe cheekbones, black silk blouse tucked with precision into tailored navy slacks, notebook clutched against her ribs like a shield. She didn’t believe in fluff. She believed in exposure, especially when corporate culture grew ornamental and strange.

Sixty-six female secretaries in a single firm. Not a single male assistant. A pristine front. Even for venture capital, that ratio raised eyebrows—and questions. Questions Deeanne was known for asking.

Ding.

The doors opened.

The floor looked like the lobby of a retro-futurist hotel: clean lines, brushed chrome, soft oranges and seafoam greens. The air was tinged with a faint floral chemical scent—something between jasmine and correction fluid. Deeanne stepped forward. Behind her, the elevator doors shut with a sound that had the finality of a vault.

A woman at the front desk looked up, smiled. Perfect posture. Perfect teeth. Hair like an old catalog model from the seventies, blow-dried into submissive volume.

"You're here for Mr. Hart," she said sweetly. "Conference Room C, just ahead."

Deeanne nodded, noncommittal. She moved past rows of desks, each manned—womaned—by a flawlessly groomed secretary in candy-colored skirt suits, tapping away at keyboards or sorting physical paperwork like it was 1985. No one looked up. No one looked wrong.

This floor was a snow globe of order.

Mike Hart, COO, was already seated when she entered the office. He stood when he saw her, awkward and pleasant, a man whose shirts were always just slightly too large. He gestured to a chair opposite.

"Thanks for making the time," she said, flipping open her notebook, pen in hand. She didn’t smile.

"Of course," Mike replied. "Happy to help."

She uncapped her pen. Took a breath.

Then faltered.

For just a moment, her tongue couldn’t find the shape of the sentence she meant to say. A faint fog skimmed across her thoughts, like a page smudged before ink dried. She blinked, lips parting.

Mike raised his eyebrows gently, waiting.

"I… was wondering," she said, recovering, "about the firm’s staffing philosophy—specifically the gender composition of your support staff."

There it was. She was back.

But something was wrong.

Her pen felt slippery. No, slippery wasn’t the word—light. Cheap. Like a promotional pen. She looked down. It wasn’t the sleek black rollerball she’d brought. It was pink. And had glitter. And read: Hack Gray—Always on Point!

She frowned.

Then Mike said something—she didn’t quite catch it—and she nodded without knowing why. Her thoughts darted, tried to regain ground, but it felt like chasing butterflies through fog. Her blouse felt tighter. Had it always had that plunging neckline?

She scratched at her collar, and her sleeve rustled differently. The silk was gone. Polyester now. Thin, stretchy, peach-colored.

"Excuse me," she said suddenly, voice rising without her meaning to.

Except—it didn’t rise. It tinkled. Sweet and bright and wrong.

Her notebook slipped from her fingers. She bent to pick it up, but it wasn’t her notebook anymore. It was a glossy planner with “You Go Girl!” embossed in gold on the front.

She froze.

A small part of her—a last part—tried to scream inside her skull. No. No. I’m Deeanne Beach. I’m a journalist. I’m here to write a profile. But it was already half-melted, half-swallowed by the hot syrup of transformation running through her body like floodwater.

The changes came in a brutal sequence.

First her shoes—heels still, but chunkier, pinker. Her legs now encased in flesh-toned pantyhose. Her slacks were gone. Replaced by a high-waisted pencil skirt tight enough to slow every step to a swish.

Her blouse strained as her chest changed. Grew. She giggled—a reflex. Or maybe not hers. Her bra, she now knew, was lacy, peach, and absolutely adorbs. Her makeup thickened in an instant, brows arched, lips glossed, lashes enormous. Oversized hoop earrings unfurled into existence, swaying just above her shoulders.

Her hair coiled upward into a puffed beehive of retro volume. She could smell it: hairspray and cherry. Hadn’t she just…?

"Dee?"

Her head snapped up. Mike looked puzzled, not alarmed.

"Are you feeling okay?"

"Ohmigosh," she heard herself chirp. "I think I got a lil’ dizzy there!"

He smiled, relieved. Of course he was. Everything was normal now.

Dee smiled back, lipstick shimmering under the warm fluorescents. Her name was Dee. Dee Beach. She'd always been Dee. She worked at Hack Gray. She loved Hack Gray. She was the kind of girl who color-coded memos and always kept extra staples in her drawer just in case.

Mike looked at her kindly.

"Could you grab me a coffee, Dee?"

"Totally!" she said, already halfway to her feet, notepad forgotten.

Her skirt clung to her thighs as she walked—click-click-swish—toward the kitchenette at the end of the hall. Her hoops bounced softly with each step. Another secretary passed her, gave her a little wave. Dee waved back, beaming.

As she walked, she passed a framed employee profile. Her own face smiled back—nameplate read Dee Beach. Employee since 2022. Favorite part of the job: "Keeping the boys on track!"

She didn’t question it.

Dee just giggled, adjusted her bra strap, and reached for the hazelnut creamer.