Transit, 18 (Patreon)

The task of dressing, a mundane act Lori had mastered over decades, had suddenly become a challenge fraught with frustration. As she rifled through the suitcase for something to wear, her fingers—crowned with impractically long nails—fumbled awkwardly. Clothes spilled onto the floor in a cascade of colors and textures until she unearthed an outfit that seemed almost normal against the sea of provocative options.

With a relieved sigh, Lori held up a pair of black faux leather mini shorts. They shone under the room's light, sleek and daring, yet something she could manage. Next, she found a simple animal print tank top. "How did I miss this before?" she muttered to herself, surprised by the relative modesty of the top compared to the rest of the contents.

Dressing was a slow process. Each movement was careful, deliberate, to avoid the catch and pull of her nails. The tank top slipped over her head with less difficulty than she anticipated, but the shorts required a bit of wriggling to get into. Once dressed, she felt a semblance of her old self creeping back, even in this unfamiliar attire.

She eyed the black high-heeled slippers positioned neatly beside the suitcase. With a deep breath, she slipped her feet into them. Standing up, she took a few cautious steps, adjusting to the height and the feel of the heels. They were more comfortable than she expected, a small grace amidst the chaos.

In the mirror, Lori examined her ensemble. The outfit was far from what she would choose for a day at the office or a casual outing back home, but it was the best she could do under the circumstances. "Well, it's now or never," she whispered to her reflection, the woman staring back at her wearing a mix of determination and apprehension.