The first thing Tommy noticed was the smell—sharp antiseptic with an underlying hint of cheap air freshener, like someone had tried to mask the clinic’s medical sterility with supermarket lavender. He scratched at his thinning hairline absently, the brochure in his other hand promising "Natural Restoration, Guaranteed Results" in bold, cheerful letters.
"Sign here, mate," said the receptionist, a bored-looking bloke with a sleeve tattoo peeking out from under his scrubs. He slid a clipboard across the counter without looking up. Tommy hesitated, pen hovering over the dotted line. "Everything’s standard," the guy added, shrugging. "No refunds, though."
Tommy scribbled his name. The waiting room was empty except for an old man flipping through a dog-eared magazine and a flickering fluorescent light. A door buzzed open, and a nurse—if you could call her that, given her neon pink trainers—waved him in. "Right this way, love. Dr. Mullins is ready for you."
The procedure room was smaller than he expected, the chair more like a dentist’s than anything medical. Dr. Mullins, a wiry bloke with a goatee and too-white teeth, gestured at it. "Hop on up, Tommy. Quick consultation first—just a formality." He tapped a tablet, scrolling. "So, hair restoration, yeah? Classic male pattern baldness, thinning at the crown… standard stuff." Tommy nodded, trying not to fidget as Mullins hummed. "You ever consider something more… transformative?"
Tommy blinked. "What, like a wig?"
Dr. Mullins chuckled, the sound too sharp, like a blade scraping against bone. "A wig? Christ, no. We do real transformations here." He reached under the chair and pulled out a set of thick leather straps. "Standard protocol," he said casually, looping one around Tommy's wrist before he could react. The leather creaked as Mullins yanked it tight, the buckle clicking into place with finality.
Tommy's pulse jumped. "Wait—"
"Relax, mate. Just precautionary." Mullins secured his other wrist, then crouched to fasten straps around his ankles. The chair tilted back slightly, locking Tommy into a reclined position. The ceiling tiles had water stains in the shape of continents Tommy didn’t recognize. "Gotta keep you still," Mullins continued, patting his shoulder like he was a nervous dog. "Wouldn’t want you twitching mid-procedure, would we? Bad for the scalp. Bad for the aesthetic."
Aesthetic. The word slithered through Tommy’s skull. He tried to lift his arm—just testing—but the strap held firm, biting into his skin. The nurse from earlier wheeled in a tray of instruments, the metal clinking like cutlery in a drawer. Tommy caught a glimpse of something that looked suspiciously like a tattoo gun. "Uh," he said, voice higher than he intended, "what exactly are you—"
"Bioethics seminar later, yeah?" Mullins interrupted, snapping on gloves. "Right now, we’re giving you what you really need." He leaned in, breath minty and artificial. "Ever fancied being someone else, Tommy? Properly, I mean. Not just a haircut. A whole vibe."
Tommy jerked against the straps, his breath coming in short, panicked bursts. "No—wait, I changed my mind. Let me up." His voice cracked on the last word, and Dr. Mullins sighed like he'd heard this a thousand times before. He didn't even look up from the tray of instruments, just adjusted a dial on some humming machine Tommy hadn't noticed before.
The door burst open with a bang that made Tommy flinch. Two figures strode in, decked head-to-toe in tracksuits so bright they hurt his eyes—neon orange and electric green, the kind of gear you’d spot from space. Their faces were hidden behind black balaclavas, only their eyes visible, glinting with something between amusement and menace. One of them tossed a duffel bag onto the counter, the clatter of metal inside making Tommy’s stomach twist.
"Right on time," Dr. Mullins said, like they’d just popped in for tea.
Tommy thrashed, the chair creaking under him. "What the fuck is this? Let me—" One of the lads lunged forward, faster than Tommy could process, and clamped a gloved hand over his mouth. The other pulled a syringe from the duffel, the liquid inside a sickly, iridescent blue. Tommy’s eyes locked onto it, his pulse hammering in his throat.
"Easy, mate," the lad with the syringe said, voice muffled by the fabric. "Just a little prick."
Tommy's muscles went slack before his brain registered why—the syringe's contents hit his bloodstream like a lit fuse, warmth spreading through his limbs in slow, syrupy waves. His thoughts blurred at the edges, the panic dissolving into something thick and distant, like trying to swim through treacle. The lad holding his mouth removed his glove with a smirk, revealing chipped black nail polish. "There we go," he cooed, patting Tommy's cheek. "Proper chilled now, innit?"
Dr. Mullins rolled up his sleeves, revealing forearms covered in ink—tribal tattoos gone wrong, faded football crests, a wonky Mum in Gothic script. "Right," he muttered, flicking on a buzzing razor. "Let’s get you looking the part." The first pass of the blade sent a cascade of Tommy's remaining hair tumbling onto his shoulders, the sensation oddly pleasant through the chemical haze. He tried to protest, but his tongue felt swollen, his words slurring into a groan.
The lad in the neon tracksuit—Daz, his name tag read—leaned against the counter, rolling a spliff with practiced ease. "Gonna need this after," he said, licking the paper. "Proper initiation, like." Tommy watched, hypnotized, as Daz sparked up, the first drag filling the room with the sweet, skunky reek of cheap weed. The smoke curled toward the ceiling, merging with the water-stain continents. Tommy inhaled reflexively, the THC-laced air layering onto the injection’s effect, his thoughts sinking deeper into the fog.
Mullins worked with the precision of a man who’d done this a thousand times—shaving the sides down to the scalp, leaving just that stark oval of hair on top, the black dye stinging Tommy’s skin as it seeped into freshly exposed follicles. The high-and-tight shape emerged like a grotesque sculpture, the razor’s edge defining the lines with military harshness. Tommy’s reflection in the overhead lamp’s chrome surface was a stranger: gaunt cheekbones, hollow eyes, that ridiculous tuft of hair like a dead animal perched on his skull.
Daz exhaled a plume of smoke directly into Tommy’s face. "Look at you," he laughed, nudging his mate. "Proper little scally now. Just needs the tracksuit and the attitude." The other lad—Kev, his tag read—dug into the duffel and pulled out a crumpled Adidas jacket, the stripes peeling at the edges. "Here," Kev said, shaking it out. "Uniform." Tommy’s fingers twitched as they dressed him, the fabric rough against his skin, the smell of sweat and Lynx Africa clinging to the seams.
"Hold up, lads," Dr. Mullins said, waving a hand as Kev dangled the Adidas jacket over Tommy’s limp body. "Dressing him now’s like putting a bow on a feral cat. Won’t stick." He rummaged in a drawer beneath the tray of instruments, the metal screeching in protest, and pulled out a black balaclava—except this one had wires snaking from the seams, pulsing faintly with a dull red glow. "Gotta wire his noggin first. Proper firmware update."
Daz took another drag, blowing smoke rings toward the ceiling. "Fuckin’ hell, Doc. Thought you said this was a quick in-and-out."
Mullins ignored him, turning the balaclava inside out to reveal a mess of electrodes, each one slick with conductive gel. "Quick for you. For him?" He tapped Tommy’s forehead, now shiny with sweat and dye runoff. "Full factory reset. Wipe the posh twat right out."
Tommy’s pulse spiked again, the chemical haze thinning just enough for panic to claw its way back in. "No—no, you can’t—" His voice was hoarse, his throat raw like he’d been screaming for hours. Maybe he had. Time had turned to sludge.
Kev chuckled, fishing another syringe from the duffel—this one filled with a viscous, pearlescent liquid that shimmered unnaturally under the clinic’s fluorescents. "Relax, mate. Just a little youth boost. Nineteen again—proper prime." He didn’t bother swabbing Tommy’s arm, just jabbed the needle into the crook of his elbow. The serum burned like petrol in his veins, a white-hot rush that made his muscles seize. His skin prickled, tightening over suddenly prominent ribs, his once-soft belly hollowing out into the lean, hungry angles of a kid who’d grown up on Pot Noodles and stolen energy drinks.
Daz whistled low. "Fuckin’ hell. Look at him." He pinched Tommy’s cheek, now sharp enough to cut paper. "Proper cheekbones now. Bet the birds’ll love that."
Tommy’s breath came in shallow gasps, his body aching like he’d been run through a taffy puller. "Please," he rasped, voice cracking—higher now, younger. "Just let me go."
Mullins snorted, yanking the balaclava down over Tommy’s skull. The electrodes pressed cold against his scalp, the gel seeping into his freshly shorn stubble. "Bit late for that, sunshine." He flicked a switch on the back of the mask, and the wires flared to life, pulsing crimson. "Think of this as… vocational training."
The world dissolved into static. Tommy’s thoughts unraveled like a cheap jumper caught on a nail—memories of uni, his dad’s golf clubs, the taste of artisan coffee—all of it fraying at the edges, replaced by something louder, cruder. A montage of stolen pints, pavement-gray skies, the stink of piss in a bus shelter. The hum of the electrodes synced with his heartbeat, each pulse rewriting another line of code in his brain.
Kev’s voice cut through the noise, tinny and distant: "Gonna need a new name for him. Can’t have a scally called Tommy."
Tommy’s thoughts stuttered like a skipping record, each pulse of the balaclava’s electrodes rewriting another syllable of his identity. Tommy—no, that wasn’t right. Too soft, too posh. A name like a sweater vest. His tongue probed the roof of his mouth, tasting the metallic tang of the gel seeping from the mask’s seams. "Fuckin’—lemme go, yeah?" The words tumbled out in a Manc twang he’d never used before, the vowels flattened under an invisible boot.
Memories flickered behind his eyelids like a dying projector: his first pint at uni (that’s not me), a childhood holiday in Cornwall (who the fuck goes there?), the feel of a cashmere scarf (soft little prick). Each one dissolved into the static, replaced by the visceral punch of a stolen bike handlebar to his ribs, the acrid sting of a cheap vape hitting the back of his throat. He groaned, the sound morphing mid-way into a laugh—harsh, jagged. "Y’alright, Doc? Or d’ya just like watchin’ lads squirm?"
Daz barked a laugh, grinding his spliff into the clinic’s linoleum. "There he is! Proper little gobshite now." He leaned in, his Lynx Africa and weed stench thick enough to choke on. "What’s your name, then?"
Tommy—not Tommy—blinked. The question slithered through his skull, elusive as a greased eel. His name was… something with a K. Or maybe a T. "Dunno," he admitted, the admission sharp as a shiv. "But I know you’re a twat." The insult felt good, natural, like scratching an itch he’d had for years.
Dr. Mullins peeled the balaclava off with a wet schlick, the electrodes leaving angry red welts in their wake. "There. Sorted." He held up a hand mirror, the glass cracked at the corner. "Meet the new you."
The mirror showed a stranger—gaunt cheeks, hollow eyes, and that ridiculous black tuft perched like roadkill on his scalp. But when the reflection grinned, teeth yellowed from fags and energy drinks, something inside Riley clicked. "Fuck me," he muttered, fingers prodding his new jawline. "Proper handsome now, innit?"
Dr. Mullins chuckled, tossing the mirror aside. "Quiz time, sunshine. What’s your name?"
"Riley," he snapped, the name tasting like stolen vape hits and bus-stop piss. Then, quieter: "Tommy." The syllable slithered out like a worm from a tin, wrong and soft. Riley’s nose wrinkled. "Fuck off with that posh twat shite."
Daz lobbed a crushed can of Monster at his head. "Who won the 1966 World Cup?"
"England, you daft cunt," Riley sneered, catching the can mid-air. His hands moved faster now—knuckles scabbed, nails bitten to the quick.
The mirror clattered to the floor as Riley's fingers twitched toward the crumpled pack of Lambert & Butler tucked in the waistband of his trackies. His movements were jerky, unpracticed—like a marionette with half its strings cut—but the muscle memory of a thousand fag breaks kicked in. The lighter sparked on the third try, the flame wobbling before he sucked in the first drag. Smoke filled his lungs, thick and chemical, and Riley exhaled through his nose like he'd been doing it since primary.
The first drag of smoke hit Riley’s lungs like a brick to the chest, and his fingers—already twitching with the ghost of old habits—dropped instinctively to the waistband of his trackies. The fabric was stiff with dried Lynx Africa and something unidentifiable, but the feel of his own cock underneath was alarmingly familiar, like he’d been tugging at it since Year Seven. It stirred under his palm, thickening fast, and Riley grinned around the fag dangling from his lips. "Fuckin’ hell," he muttered, voice already hoarse. "Proper weapon, this."
Dr. Mullins watched, arms crossed, his goatee twitching with something between pride and impatience. "Quiz time," he announced, snapping his fingers. "What’s your nan’s name?"
Riley’s hand stilled for half a second, his brow furrowing. A flicker of something—a woman in a floral apron, the smell of custard creams—flashed behind his eyes before dissolving into static. "Dunno," he spat, giving his cock a rough squeeze. "Died before I were born, din’t she?" The words tasted like a lie, but his fingers kept moving, the rhythm overriding the itch in his skull.
The doc nodded, satisfied, and fired off another question. "Who’s the fittest bird on Love Island?"
Riley barked a laugh, ash tumbling from his fag onto his bare thigh. "Fuckin’ none of ‘em, mate. Rather wank to Gogglebox." His cock pulsed in his grip, the heat of it spreading up his spine. It felt obscenely big, like someone had grafted a fucking rolling pin between his legs, and the sheer weight of it sent a jolt of dumb pride through him. "Twelve inch, easy," he bragged, thumbing the head just to hear Daz whistle.
Riley’s fingers moved with the practiced rhythm of a lad who’d spent more time wanking than studying, his calloused grip tightening around the base of his cock as it twitched against his thigh. The cigarette dangled from his lips, the ash trembling as he exhaled through his nose, the smoke curling around his freshly shaved head like a shitty halo. "Fuckin’ massive, innit?" he slurred, thumb rubbing over the leaking tip just to watch Daz’s eyes track the movement. The last dregs of Tommy’s consciousness clung to the back of his skull like a stubborn hangover—this isn’t me, this isn’t me—but the thought unraveled as soon as it formed, drowned out by the obscene slap of his balls against the chair.
Dr. Mullins leaned in, his breath reeking of stale mints and surgical spirit. "Final question," he murmured, tapping the tip of Riley’s cock with a biro like he was taking attendance. "What’s the capital of France?"
Riley’s hips jerked off the chair, his cock swelling impossibly thicker, veins standing out like rope under his skin. "Dunno," he grunted, spit pooling under his tongue as his free hand fumbled for the pack of Lambert & Butler. "Some frog shitehole. Fuckin’—ah—Paris, like." The answer was dragged out of him, half-buried under the slick sounds of his own fist working his length. The last syllable dissolved into a groan as his thumb circled the head, the pleasure short-circuiting the last of Tommy’s memories—art galleries, wine tastings, fucking hummus—all of it evaporating like piss on a pavement in July.
Kev whistled, low and appreciative, as Riley’s cock pulsed in his grip, the foreskin pulling back to reveal a flushed, glistening head. "Proper monster, that," he mused, nudging Daz. "Bet he could crack a walnut with that."
Riley’s laugh came out strangled, his hips fucking up into his fist as the cig burned down to the filter. "Fuck off," he gasped, the words mangled around the fag. "Could crack your head, mate." The threat was undercut by the way his toes curled, his breath hitching as his balls drew up tight. The last scrap of Tommy—proper Tommy, posh Tommy—surfaced one final time, a desperate, wordless scream echoing in the hollow of his skull. Then Riley came, his back arching off the chair as ropes of cum splattered across his chest, completing Rileys new council house trash role.
