A Sprinkle of Daily Magic - Short Story 1. SupernaturalBeauty

The folding chairs squeaked when I moved, betraying my nervousness more than the slight trembling of my hands. Seven pairs of eyes observed me with that mix of curiosity and empathy you only find in support groups like this one. The fluorescent light occasionally flickered, casting restless shadows over the peeling walls of the basement.

"My name is Catalino, but you can call me Cato," I said while discreetly pulling at the sleeves of my hoodie to make sure they completely covered my wrists. "And I'm... a shapeshifter."

Get it all out at once. Like ripping off a band-aid.

"Welcome, Cato," replied Pablo, the moderator, running a hand through his graying beard. Beads of sweat pearled on his forehead despite the cold of the basement. "We all understand what you're going through here. This is a safe space."

I nodded without adding anything else. Pablo gave me a patient smile, probably the same one he had offered hundreds of shifters over decades.

Someone knocked on the door with such force and insistence that it made us all jump. Pablo got up with a tired sigh and approached to receive a possible newcomer.

"No, you've got the wrong place," he said after listening for a few seconds. "The super-secret hacker's office is next door." And he returned to his seat.

"Third time this week," commented Jorge, another member. "He's so super-secret that everyone gets the wrong door."

Pablo nodded resignedly and focused his attention back on me.

"Perhaps it might help to hear some experiences from your companions," he suggested, gesturing broadly toward the group. "Jorge has just shared his story."

The chairs groaned under his mass, merging into one beneath that massive body. A forest of black hair extended from his forearms to disappear beneath the collar of his shirt, and those enormous hands—which would have made a beer mug look small—cradled the coffee cup with the delicacy of someone handling a soap bubble.

"As I was saying," Jorge continued in a surprisingly soft voice, "the worst part is the clothes. Every full moon I destroy at least two complete outfits. And then there's the hair problem... finding it everywhere for weeks."

I watched, fascinated, as his fingers, the size of sausages, played with a small crystal figure he had taken from his pocket. It looked like a miniature bear carved with astonishing precision.

"I use a special dog brush," interjected an older woman sitting across from me, her face marked by decades of worry. "I buy it at the pet store and nobody suspects a thing. I call it my 'natural beauty routine.'"

"My mother makes me shave in the garden," added Lupita from beneath her hood. "She says I clog the pipes with so much wolf hair."

A murmur of understanding laughter spread around the circle. Everyone nodded, sharing that common problem: excess hair during their transformations. The air in the basement seemed charged with the camaraderie of those who share a secret too strange for the outside world.

I avoided their gazes. My fingers played with the edge of the chair, my nails—slightly sharper than normal—producing a rhythmic sound against the metal.

"And you, Cato?" asked Pablo when the silence became evident. "Would you like to share something about your experience?"

All eyes fixed on me again. I shifted uncomfortably, feeling a tickle in my throat that threatened to become a purr. The question hung in the air, awaiting an answer I wasn't sure I could articulate.

"My problem is... exactly the opposite," I finally murmured.

"The opposite?" asked Jorge, frowning beneath his thick mat of hair.

"What do you mean?" Lupita's voice sounded genuinely curious from the shadows of her hood.

I took a deep breath. Now or never.

"I worked as a crossfit trainer and had a YouTube channel about exercise routines," I continued, surprised by the ease with which the words now flowed. "I was always... obsessive about depilation. Not a single hair out of place. My daily routine included exfoliation, depilatory creams, and even laser. My followers joked that I spent more on cosmetic products than on protein."

I let my gaze wander around the circle, observing their faces. Jorge nodded slowly, his dark eyes shining with genuine interest. Lupita had leaned slightly forward, her hood briefly revealing a sharp profile and amber eyes.

"My channel was growing slowly, but always in the shadow of Marcos Álvarez, 'The Beast.'" The name came out as an involuntary hiss. "Six million followers. Sponsorships with the best brands. National medals in crossfit competitions."

The memory of his mocking smile made my pupils involuntarily narrow.

"In every competition, Marcos waved his national medals in my face. 'How's your little princess channel going?' he would whisper as he passed by. But his finger trembled over his phone as he obsessively refreshed the view counter: my beauty tutorials had twice the views of his crossfit routines."

A flashback crossed my mind: Marcos, with his perfectly muscled body, leaning over me in the locker room. "People want to see strength, Catalino, not a kitten licking its paws." The memory was so vivid I could almost smell his excessively masculine cologne.

"Not to mention the day when my facial mask tutorial reached 100,000 views, triple his latest training video. His mocking smile transformed into a tic the day he lost thousands of followers... who appeared on my profile. And then his Stories... No. Better leave it there. For now."

An involuntary purr escaped my throat, provoking curious glances.

"Sorry, I'm a bit nervous," I quickly clarified, feeling heat in my cheeks. "After my first transformation, instead of turning into something hairy like you all, I turned into... this."

I slightly lifted the sleeve of my hoodie, revealing blue-grayish skin, shiny and completely hairless. The fluorescent light made it look almost metallic. The blue veins marked beneath the surface like electric circuits.

"An Egyptian cat," murmured Lupita with amazement, her flaming eyes under the hood.

"The first time was horrible," I continued, vividly remembering that night. "I was trying a new anti-aging cream with extract of some exotic plant with a 'rejuvenating' and 'transforming' effect."

The bathroom was full of steam, the phone screen fogging up as I adjusted the angle for the livestream. "Today we're going to try Nefertum's new rejuvenating cream," I announced to the few viewers who had connected. "Promised for men who want perfect skin."

The bottle gleamed under the lights. Minimalist label, gold on black. I opened it with a theatrical gesture, showing the bluish cream that smelled slightly of lotus and something else... unusual.

"Remember to follow me for more masculine beauty tips," I said while applying the first layer on my freshly exfoliated face. "CatoBeauty always brings you the most innovative products on the market."

"And don't forget to follow my CatoFit live sessions every Wednesday, where we'll shape those perfectly beautiful and smooth bodies, and sculpt them until they're ideal."

The tingling began almost immediately. Like thousands of microscopic ants crawling across my skin. At first, I thought it was the normal sensation of the cream working.

But then came the burning.

"I think I'm having a small reaction," I murmured, leaning toward the mirror. And that's when I saw it: my pupils, normally round, beginning to narrow vertically like a cat's.

"What the hell...?"

My skin was starting to turn bluish. Not a sickly blue, but a bright blue-grayish tone, like some exotic cat breeds.

Panic invaded me. I desperately tried to clean off the cream, but the change had already begun.

"Sorry, I have to cut this short," I said hastily, looking for the button to end the transmission with fingers that were beginning to elongate slightly.

But in my panic, I only minimized the application. The livestream continued broadcasting while I watched with horror as my image changed in the mirror.

"The bones in my face cracked like dry branches while my jaw readjusted," I related, feeling a shiver as I remembered. "I felt each vertebra in my spine stretch one by one, undulating under my skin like trapped snakes. The worst was the metallic taste that flooded my mouth when my fangs pierced my gums, cutting through the flesh like hot needles."

Jorge visibly shuddered. His enormous body tensed as if reliving his own transformation.

"My senses exploded all at once: the bathroom lights blinded me like direct flashes, the comments from my followers on the livestream echoed in my ears like shouts in a canyon, and the smell of my own sweat became so intense it made me gag."

Pablo nodded understandingly, offering me a glass of water that I gratefully accepted. The cool liquid momentarily relieved the dryness in my throat.

"I panicked and thought I had cut the transmission," I continued after drinking. "By the time I realized and deleted it, several followers had downloaded the video and captured images. Within hours, 'Catman, the influencer' was trending."

A collective sigh went through the room. Everyone understood the terror of being exposed.

"I was terrified, hiding in my apartment, when I received a call. It was the marketing director of LunaBella Cosmetics. They had seen a leaked video of my transformation and, instead of being horrified, they saw... potential."

"Potential?" asked Jorge, leaning forward with genuine curiosity.

LunaBella Cosmetics' office occupied the entire 3rd floor of a glass building in the financial center. I waited in a meeting room with frosted glass walls, trying to calm my nervousness. My reflection in the black marble table returned an almost normal image, except for my eyes, which refused to completely return to their previous state.

The door burst open and in came Claudia Vega, marketing director. Tall, impeccably dressed, with an energy that seemed to electrify the air around her.

"Catalino!" she exclaimed as if we were old friends. "Or should I say... Catman?" My stomach contracted.

"I'd prefer you didn't." She sat across from me, her eyes evaluating me with clinical precision.

"What has happened to you is... extraordinary. Unique. And potentially very lucrative."

"I'd call it a nightmare," I replied dryly.

She smiled, a gesture that her eyes didn't reflect.

"We seek perfect skin," she said, paraphrasing the company slogan. "And now we know it's in you."

She slid a tablet toward me. On the screen, a contract with a figure that made me blink several times.

"We want you to be the face of a new line we're going to launch with you as the brand's flagship. Complete exclusivity, of course."

"But my skin... my transformation..."

"That's exactly what we want to show. Controlled, of course." Her smile widened. "Our scientists are already working on a modified version of the cream. Don't worry, it won't transform anyone else like you. It will just... enhance your most attractive features for the cameras."

"'Perfect skin exists,' they told me," I sighed, remembering my naivety. "They wanted to turn me into their corporate image. That's how the #SupernaturalBeauty campaign was born. Overnight, I went from fearing being discovered to being exhibited as an exotic rarity."

My hands moved instinctively as if holding bottles and applying creams, gestures I had repeated in hundreds of photo sessions.

"They developed an experimental cream that gave me some control over the transformation. I could maintain a human appearance except for some... select features that were attractive for the cameras."

I took out my phone and showed them some advertising campaign photos: my face with golden feline eyes promoting an eye mask; my torso with a subtle blue glow for a body lotion; my slightly transformed hands, with elegantly elongated nails, holding a perfume bottle.

"The problem was that you never knew exactly which features would decide to manifest in each photo session. One day my eyes would turn completely golden with vertical pupils—perfect for the 'Feline Gaze' eyeliner campaign—and the next small bluish spots would appear on my cheekbones that the art director called 'constellations of supernatural beauty.'"

To illustrate, I let out another purr, this one completely intentional.

"Another side effect is that I now purr when I'm nervous or excited. I can't control it." I looked at Jorge with a twisted smile. "Imagine being in the middle of a million-dollar contract negotiation and suddenly starting to sound like a car engine at idle. My agent learned to kick me under the table every time I started."

Soft laughter traveled around the circle. For the first time since I entered, I felt they really understood me.

"And how was fame?" asked Jorge, resting his huge hands on his hairy knees.

"Explosive," I replied, feeling how my voice gained intensity. "In three months I went from being unknown to having fifteen million followers."

The photo studio was a controlled chaos of technicians, stylists, and assistants fluttering like bees around their queen: me, sitting on a golden throne with Egyptian motifs, while a makeup artist gave the final touches to my blue skin.

"More shine on the cheekbones," ordered the creative director. "We want it to capture light as if it were liquid mercury."

My body ached. I had been in the same position for hours, maintaining a partial transformation that required all my concentration. I felt my facial muscles tense from the effort of keeping my pupils vertical.

"Five-minute break!" someone finally shouted.

I got up, stretching my numbed muscles. In a corner of the studio, a screen showed in real-time the latest posts with the hashtag #SupernaturalBeauty. Thousands of young people applying blue makeup, using contact lenses with vertical pupils, attaching fake ears to their heads.

My phone vibrated with a notification: Marcos had posted a video. I opened it instinctively.

"True beauty is in strength, not in painting yourself like a clown," he said, lifting weights while looking defiantly at the camera. "Some sell smoke and makeup. I offer real results."

The comments were a mix of support for him and passionate defenses toward me. A digital war of opposing tribes.

"Thirty seconds," warned the production assistant.

I locked the phone, took a deep breath, and returned to the throne. The transformation advanced a bit more than planned due to my agitation. I felt my ears stretch slightly, becoming more pointed.

"Perfect!" exclaimed the photographer. "Maintain exactly that expression."

My gaze darkened as I remembered the worst moment.

"Everything was going well until the Madison Square Garden presentation, right on a full moon. It was supposed to be a controlled transformation, but..."

My voice dropped to a whisper.

"I completely lost control in front of thousands of people. The transformation was total. And instead of fleeing in terror... they went crazy with excitement."

"What happened?" asked Lupita, leaning forward.

"They chased me. Thousands of people trying to touch me, pull out hair I don't have, take selfies, wanting to 'be like me.' I had to escape through the emergency exits."

Pablo offered me another glass of water when he noticed my breathing had become irregular.

"That night I understood that I had exchanged one type of prison for another. I no longer feared being discovered, but now I couldn't walk down the street without being recognized, pursued, worshipped like a feline deity."

I opened my backpack and extracted a small case that I always carried with me.

"This is my survival kit," I explained, spreading its contents on the central table. A collection of cheap wigs, fake mustaches, false eyebrows, makeup of different tones, non-prescription glasses, and other products from the Spy Shop. "From being the ideal image influencer of #BeautyNotBeasty, to having to hide under layers and more layers of hair, unable to enjoy fame and money. The only way to walk around Madrid without being chased."

I took out my phone and showed them a Vogue cover photo where I appeared in full transformation, my blue-grayish skin gleaming under the studio lights, my hypnotic golden eyes looking directly at the camera.

"This is me according to the world," I said. And then I pointed to myself, showing my fake "wolf chest" with a bitter gesture. "And this is me escaping from that world."

The shopping mall was brimming with Christmas activity. I moved forward with my head bowed under a cap, fake beard, and non-prescription glasses. A completely hairy and anonymous version of myself.

It had worked for almost an hour. I almost felt normal buying gifts like any other person.

Then I saw it: an entire store dedicated to #SupernaturalBeauty products. My blue face on gigantic posters. Teenagers queuing to buy the makeup kit that "transforms you into Catman."

I approached, fascinated by that commercialized version of my nightmare.

"Excuse me," said a voice behind me. A shop assistant smiled at me. "Are you interested in the feline look? We have a special promotion today."

The irony provoked a laugh that I quickly converted into a cough.

"No, thanks. It's not... my style."

"Oh, you never know until you try it," she insisted, taking an applicator. "A blue touch on the cheekbones might suit you well even with that beard." I instinctively backed away.

"Really, I'm not interested."

It was then that I felt it, the familiar itch in my skin. Not here, please. Not now. The full moon was near and my transformations were becoming harder to control.

A drop of blue sweat trickled down my temple. The shop assistant observed it, confused at first, then with growing amazement.

"Wait... are you...?"

I didn't wait for her to finish the sentence. I ran off, feeling how the fake beard began to peel away from my increasingly blue skin, in front of a mob that seemed to want to lynch me with kisses and caresses.

Silence fell over the room like a heavy blanket. Nobody knew what to say. The irony was too evident: while they feared being discovered, I was hiding from my own fame.

Jorge was the first to break the silence with a deep sigh.

"It's sad. I almost prefer my situation," said Jorge, running a hand through his beard. "At least I can be myself almost always."

"How can you hate it?" asked an older woman. "You're famous, rich..."

"And the paparazzi stalk me, trying to capture my transformation. I receive hundreds of messages asking for 'the special cream,'" I said. "I'm only myself when I'm alone. Locked in hotels," I said. "And the contract..." I paused to purr. "My golden eyes reflect every night in the black screen of my phone. A million followers waiting. Three million in fines if I miss a single night. The threat of a lawsuit for breach of contract weighing on my shoulders like an invisible cage. I feel like a caged cat, as if there was a cat_ch."

Lupita, silent until then, touched my hand.

"We can hide," she said softly. "You can't, neither as a monster nor as a human."

"Thanks for the monster part," I told her with a tear split in two by my pupil.

"The ironic thing," I continued with a broken voice, "is that we feared being hunted like beasts. The reality is worse: they turn us into products. The real monster is the one who hands you a contract and says 'Sign here. You are a natural. Moreover, you are a super... natural'."

Several nodded. Even Pablo, with all his experience, seemed moved.

"Last week," I added, "I discovered something else. LunaBella is not satisfied with just me. They have been experimenting, looking for other 'specimens' for their #SupernaturalBeauty line. Different transformations for different product lines."

Jorge frowned, his enormous body visibly tensing.

"Are you saying they're trying to create more... like us?"

I nodded somberly.

"According to the documents I found in the laboratory, they're experimenting with different formulas. They want a whole 'zoo' of supernatural beauties. The werewolf for the traditional male line. The fox-woman for Asian luxury products. And they were particularly interested in developing..." my voice broke, "an amphibian version for their moisturizing product line."

The creaking of the door interrupted the moment. We all turned our heads simultaneously.

The door opened slowly, revealing a wet and trembling figure. Greenish, shiny skin. Bulging eyes that scanned the room in panic. Abnormally long and webbed fingers clutching the doorframe.

My stomach contracted as I recognized him. Marcos. My former rival. The man who hated me and mocked me on social media. Now transformed into a grotesque parody of a frog man.

Pablo rose with his usual calm.

Marcos visibly swallowed, an exaggerated movement in his new amphibian throat, repositioning his long tongue. His bulging eyes looking from side to side indiscriminately.

"Welcome to Shifters Anonymous," said Pablo, extending a hand toward the newcomer. "You're in a safe place."