Becky Lynch, the Man herself, strode into the grimy apartment. The stench of old pizza and unwashed socks was her first clue. The second was the man: a pale, lumpen mountain of fat in a stained T-shirt, his acne-scarred face grinning with yellow teeth. The walls were a shrine to her—posters, action figures, a framed, sweaty singlet. She felt a curl of pure disgust.

“Alright, big fan,” she scoffed, arms crossed, her leather jacket tight over her broad shoulders. “Business meeting for the charity thing. Let’s get this over with.” Her voice was a raspy growl, full of contempt.

He just stared, a phone clutched in his pudgy hand. “You look even better in person,” he mumbled, eyes traveling her form with a greasy hunger: the muscles of her thighs straining denim, the proud curve of her ass, her red hair tied back in a warrior’s knot.

“Look, don’t be a creep,” she snapped. “Sign the check, I’m out. You’re a sad, fat loser with a pathetic fantasy room. Your whole life is a joke.”

His smile didn’t waver. He tapped his phone. A single, high-pitched chime filled the air. “Adjusting desire. Adjustment: Level 8.”

Becky blinked. A strange warmth bloomed in her lower belly, a sudden, sticky wetness drenching her panties. “Wha…what was that?” she breathed, her voice faltering.

“Watch this,” he said,