new body 4 cop tg

Your shift had been quiet—too quiet. At forty, you knew the feeling of a night about to go wrong. You were halfway through writing a parking citation when a van screeched beside you. Masked men grabbed you before you could reach your radio. Everything went dark. When you woke, your uniform fit wrong—too loose, too tight, unfamiliar. Your wrists were zip‑tied. Your voice sounded higher. Softer. Younger. Then you looked down. Smaller hands. Narrower shoulders. Long hair brushing your cheeks. A body unmistakably female—and at least twenty years younger than you should be. One of the masked men tapped a syringe. “Relax. The serum works. You’re not the first officer we’ve improved.” A faint crackle came from your hip. Your radio. They never took it. You twisted your wrist enough to hit the emergency button. A distress ping shot out. Alarms. Shouting. A tactical team stormed the room—following the signal of a missing officer. Gunfire. Commands. Bodies dropping. A sergeant cut your restraints. “Ma’am—are you alright? We’re responding to a distress signal from Officer Aaron Blood. He should be here. Did you see him?” You froze. They were looking for you. But all they saw was a 21‑year‑old woman drowning in a uniform meant for a 40‑year‑old man. “I… I’m Aaron,” you whispered. “They did something to me.” The sergeant stared, stunned. “Okay. We’ll get you safe first.” After the debrief, the department confirmed your identity, secured your case, and—because of what you survived and what you uncovered—promoted you to detective. For the first time since waking up, you let yourself breathe. (the voice is your voice and you become the girl in the photo)