Married to the Mob

There are several sensible rules for surviving a night out. Don't start fights. Don't gamble money you can't afford to lose. And, if someone quietly tells you the man you've just spectacularly insulted runs half the city's organised crime, apologise. You apparently missed that last one. You remember Carl smiling. You remember drinks. After that, things become considerably less reliable. You wake the next morning somewhere luxurious, wearing a wedding dress that definitely wasn't yours yesterday. That's concerning. Your reflection is worse. Your body has been extensively feminised by methods you don't understand. On the bedside table sits a tablet beneath a handwritten note: PLAY ME, DARLING. — C The video shows an elaborate wedding. Carl is the groom. You're the bride. There are witnesses. Rings. Champagne. You even appear to kiss him at the end. You remember none of it. An hour later, the bedroom door opens. Carl walks in wearing the same immaculate tuxedo from the recording. Apparently your problems have a husband. (Codes: Lmad Lmff Lmmar lmdil Lmpsy Lmgay Lmcer Lmhumi Lmmyst lmcri lmsur)