The transformation lasted three hours. By the time I returned to my regular body—naked, in the neighbor’s garden, covered in soil and feathers—I knew I had something dangerous on my hands.

Naturally, I bottled it.

I labeled it _“Hangover Cure 2.0 – TEST ONLY”_ and hid it in the fridge behind expired kimchi.

The next morning, my roommate Max woke up with his usual Sunday regrets and decided to try my mysterious “remedy.” He didn’t even ask.

I found him levitating in the hallway, screaming that the houseplants were whispering to him.

Later, he told me he could understand squirrels now. Said they complain a lot about humans.

Word got out. Friends wanted in. “Just a sip,” they said. “Let me feel something weird.”

Soon I was mixing batches, experimenting with ingredients. Some potions gave people temporary telepathy. Others caused time loops for five-minute bursts. One made someone sing only in Italian opera for two days.

Was it irresponsible? Probably.

Was it fun? Absolutely.

But one day, I spilled a few drops on the pavement—and the cracks in the concrete started closing.

That’s when I realized:

This wasn’t just a hangover cure gone wrong.

This was something the world might not be ready for.

Or maybe… something it desperately needed.