He felt it. A warm, dry wind across his face. His skin tightened. The tiny scar on his chin from a bicycle crash at twelve—dissolving. The asymmetry of his eyebrows—correcting. The character, the history, the him —draining away.
No installer wizard. No license agreement. Just a window with a single, monochrome photograph of a woman he didn't recognize. Her face was a storm of texture: acne scars, a crooked nose, deep nasolabial folds. A slider sat beneath her: .
The slider moved on its own. To 150%.
