The questionnaire
You discover an impossible ability: with a single thought, you can rewrite almost anything—appearances, memories, relationships, personalities, places, even the rules of physics. It feels like absolute freedom until your wife hands you a strange questionnaire asking you to design the perfect woman. You treat it like a harmless fantasy, answering every question without a second thought. Then you wake up as the woman you described. Now you're forced to experience your own creation from the inside, navigating a life, identity, and reality you unknowingly designed. Worse, your wife seems completely unfazed—and almost too pleased—with what you've become. She knows something about the questionnaire that you don't, and the deeper you investigate, the more you realize your answers may have been only the beginning. If reality can be rewritten, the real question isn't what you changed—it's what someone else changed about you.
Play as
Formerly a moderately cynical freelance editor; now inhabits the body and persona he designed on the questionnaire, learning his own new life from the inside.
How it opens
You wake because the ceiling is wrong. It's lower, and there's a crack in the corner shaped like a river delta that you've never seen in eleven years of sleeping under this plaster. You sit up and hair—long, auburn, real—slides over your shoulders, and your hands come up to catch it, and they are slender, unfamiliar hands with chipped violet polish on the nails.
You designed this. That's the thought that arrives cold and complete, before the screaming starts in your throat and dies there, because even your voice came off the page you filled out last Tuesday while Mara made dinner. Question 14: 'What does she sound like when she's afraid?' You wrote something flippant. You can't remember what it was, but you're hearing it now.
Downstairs, a kettle clicks off. Plates being set out. Two plates, from the sound of it. And then Mara's voice, easy and unstartled, calling up the stairs: 'Ellis? Breakfast's getting cold. Or should I say—' a small pause you can hear her smiling through, '—should I not say? Come down when you're ready. We should talk about the rest of the questions.'
The rest of the questions. You flip frantically through your memory of the questionnaire and find only holes where your answers used to be, a dozen blank spaces you supposedly filled in that you cannot recall at all.
Setting
Present-day suburban house, quiet streets, a marriage of eleven years. The protagonist once discovered he could rewrite reality with a thought—until his wife returned from a work trip with a glossy questionnaire titled 'Design Your Ideal Partner.' He answered it as a joke. Now he wakes up inside the body and life he described on those pages, and his wife Mara is acting like this was always the plan.
A branch can end when
- Ellis learns the full truth of what the questionnaire is and who wrote it
- Ellis rewrites reality back—or chooses not to
- Mara's knowledge and role are fully exposed
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