Thomas Randall awoke to a whirlwind of confusion, his senses flooded with unfamiliar sights and sounds. Sunlight streamed in through the window, illuminating pastel curtains and a room adorned with posters of pop stars and colorful fairy lights. As his eyes finally focused, the reality crashed down on him—the reflection staring back from the mirror was not the rugged visage of a 43-year-old man but that of a teenage girl, no older than 16 or 17, with wide eyes and slightly crooked braces.
He—now she—took a moment to process this surreal transformation. Thomas was gone, and in his place stood **Tina Randall**, a name that felt utterly foreign against the backdrop of his memories. "What in the world…" she whispered, her voice soft and laced with a pitch that was both light and distinctly feminine. She lifted her hand to touch her face, fingers tracing the contours of a smooth jawline, slightly flushed cheeks, and a cascade of wavy hair that fell just past her shoulders.
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