“We could be together,” she whispers to him, behind his boyfriend’s back.
The syringe she’s offering contains a synthetic virus that would attack his DNA, changing it, perfecting it, “fixing” his homosexuality.
He could live with her. He could fit in. He could be normal.
He wouldn’t have to worry about police raids, curfew, retina scans, or corrective therapy for genetic defects. He wouldn’t have to live in fear of being dragged out of his home like a criminal, just for being gay.
But he wouldn’t have Oliver.
How much of himself would he change to fit in? How much of himself would be left?