心理学家露娜停在牢房前，心跳比平时略快。

狱警是个身材魁梧的男人，脸上布满岁月的痕迹，他带着好奇和怀疑的目光打量着她。

“新来的犯人，”他嘟囔着，调整了一下帽子。“今天之前从没见过她。据说她狡猾奸诈。琼斯小姐，你确定要进去吗？”露娜自信地点了点头，
紧紧地抱着笔记本和电脑。“我是来面试的。”狱警耸了耸肩，
金属碰撞声响起，打开了牢门，让她进去。“她戴着手铐，被束缚着。没有威胁。

你不用担心。”身后的门发出令人不安的回声关上了，露娜发现自己独自一人和这位神秘的犯人待在一起。

“你的鞋码是多少？”

那声低语仿佛从牢房黑暗的角落里悄然传来，令露娜的

手指僵在了笔记本电脑的键盘上。她原本正在记录对面墙上剥落的油漆。

她缓缓转过身，身下的廉价塑料椅发出吱嘎声。金属床架上的身影一动不动。那依然是一幅绝对克制的画像：一具毫无形状的躯体，裹在厚厚的帆布
紧身衣里，黑色帆布头罩完全遮住了她的头。沉默绵延不绝，沉重而


“我……对不起？”露娜终于开口，她努力维持的职业镇定彻底崩溃了。

头罩下传来一阵干涩沙哑的笑声。“你的鞋子。那双黑色高跟鞋。看起来很

很贵。什么尺码？”

露娜脊背一阵发凉。难怪他们说她精神失常，她想，轻轻摇了摇头。她决定不去理会这种感觉。这是采访，不是时尚咨询。“我们继续问问题吧，娜奥米。”

她背对着囚犯，目光落在屏幕上。狱警的话语在她脑海中回荡：

“她被铐住了，没有威胁。琼斯小姐，您不必担心。”

牢门在她身后砰然关上的金属声，仿佛已是遥远的过去。

她曾如此渴望挖到监狱里最臭名昭著的新囚犯的独家新闻，那个被报纸称为狡猾操纵者的女人。

如今，和她关在一起，这冷冰冰的环境让她感到

窒息。

一阵轻柔的沙沙声。然后是轻微的金属咔哒声。

露娜屏住了呼吸。她不想回头。只是床垫的弹簧，她告诉自己。

只是那个女人在动。

然后，她身后传来一股温暖的气息。气息拂过她的耳畔。

“我问你一个问题。”

露娜猛地转过身，椅子在水泥地上发出刺耳的摩擦声。她的心脏砰砰直跳，仿佛要从肋骨间蹦出来。娜奥米站在她面前，一动不动。束缚衣敞开着，像一件怪异的围裙。黑色的头罩皱巴巴地扔在地上。脚踝上的束缚带，被粗心的守卫胡乱地固定着，早已被解开丢弃。

还有她的脸……

露娜的世界天翻地覆，她感觉肺里的空气都被抽走了。她正凝视着镜子。同样的高颧骨，同样的丰满嘴唇，同样的湛蓝双眸。同样的黑色头发，只是娜奥米的头发凌乱而狂野。她们简直一模一样。

“怎么会……？”露娜倒吸一口凉气，声音微弱得几乎听不见。

娜奥米的笑容令人毛骨悚然，棱角分明，带着一丝冷漠的戏谑。“惊喜吧，继妹。”

她的目光扫过露娜的装束：紧身的黑色皮裙，几乎遮不住黑色蕾丝胸罩的薄纱白衬衫，合身的黑色皮夹克，丝袜，还有那双高得不可思议的高跟鞋。

“现在，把鞋脱掉。”

“不，”露娜低声说道，缩回椅子里，但娜奥米瞬间就扑了上去。一只手捂住露娜的嘴，让她无法发出声音。另一只手空着，但娜奥米眼中的威胁已经足够了。“狱警听不到你说话，”她嘶嘶地说，声音低沉而恶毒。“就算他听到了，他也只会看到一个挣扎的囚犯和一个冷静的记者。现在，我们要玩个游戏。你要一件一件地脱掉衣服。慢慢来。否则我会让你后悔不听话。”她手上的力道和眼神中闪烁的光芒都清晰可辨。

露娜浑身颤抖。恐惧让她动弹不得，她的理智在呐喊抗议，但她的身体在威胁下开始服从。这不可能。

她颤抖着伸手向下摸索，笨拙地解开右鞋精致的鞋扣。

娜奥米注视着，她那双如同镜子般的眼睛闪烁着捕食者的快感。一只鞋哐哐地掉在地上。然后是左鞋。露娜赤裸的双脚瞬间感到冰冷刺骨的水泥地面。

“丝袜，”娜奥米命令道，声音低沉而充满期待。

露娜的手指勾住丝袜的袜口。她犹豫了一下——这是她最后的、微弱的反抗。

娜奥米捂住她的嘴，发出无声的警告。露娜将薄薄的黑色丝袜拉下来，

丝袜的布料轻柔地拂过她的肌肤，她将它从大腿上褪下，脱到脚踝。膝盖，沿着她的

小腿。她让双腿垂到脚踝，迈了出去，感觉自己完全暴露在外。

“裙子。解开它。”

每一个动作都让她痛苦不堪。露娜颤抖的手指找到了紧身
皮裙背后的拉链。她拉开了拉链。她把裙子拉下来，在寂静的牢房里，这声音显得格外刺耳。裙子在她臀部松开了。

她把裙子往下推，凉风吹拂着她裸露的双腿，然后从堆在地上的皮裙里走出来，

把皮裙扔在地板上。

“衬衫。外套。所有的一切。”

泪水涌上露娜的眼眶，模糊了她眼前那张带着残酷意图凝视着她的脸。

她笨拙地解开衬衫的纽扣，每解开一颗都像是一次小小的投降。丝绸滑落，

从她的肩头滑落，接着是皮夹克。她只穿着黑色蕾丝胸罩和内裤站在那里，

皮肤上起了鸡皮疙瘩，恐惧涌上心头。

娜奥米的目光如同触碰一般，在她身上游走，贪婪地捕捉着每一个细节。

娜奥米一言不发。她只是开始穿衣服，用一种充满情欲的缓慢动作帮露娜穿上丝袜，

抚平丝袜滑过她那双一模一样的双腿。她穿上皮裙，拉上拉链，发出清脆的“嘶”的一声。她扣上衬衫的扣子，领口留出一个挑逗的缝隙，然后套上皮夹克。最后，她穿上露娜的高跟鞋。变身完成。她保留了自己的胸罩和内裤，就像露娜保留了她的一样。

她抓起丢弃的束缚衣。“轮到你了。”

“求求你，不要，”露娜哀求道，声音嘶哑。

娜奥米的回应是把她推倒在床上。她动作粗暴而熟练，显然经过了练习，将露娜的双臂塞进厚厚的帆布袖套里。露娜挣扎着，但娜奥米力气惊人，她把袖套交叉在露娜的胸前，并在背后紧紧地勒紧带子，有效地束缚住了她的双臂。粗糙的布料摩擦着她裸露的皮肤。

“没人会相信你的，”娜奥米低声说道，嘴唇贴着露娜的耳朵，同时把黑色兜帽拉下来盖住她的头。黑暗吞噬了露娜。世界缩小成一股气味：

腐臭的汗水、恐惧和廉价帆布的味道。她感觉到娜奥米的手放在她的脚踝上，咔哒一声，冰冷的金属

束缚带扣上了。

她听到高跟鞋敲击水泥地的声音，朝着牢房门走去。

“狱警！”娜奥米喊道，她的声音完美地模仿了露娜专业的语气，带着恰到好处的
恐惧。“狱警，救救我……她想……她差点脱了我的衣服！她想

取代我……”

牢房门吱呀一声开了。“冷静点，琼斯小姐，”狱警那熟悉的粗犷声音说道。

“她被束缚住了。她不可能做到。我会注意到的。”

露娜从兜帽下尖叫道：“是她！她就是我！她假扮我！”但她的声音被厚厚的布料闷住，扭曲变形，最终变成绝望而语无伦次的胡言乱语。

她听到娜奥米轻蔑的笑声。“她完全是妄想症患者，胡言乱语。”

“听起来是这样，”狱警咕哝道。“走吧，琼斯小姐，我们带你出去。你吓坏了。”

高跟鞋的脚步声再次响起。牢房的门开始发出震耳欲聋的巨响……The psychologist Luna stopped in front of the cell, her heart beating slightly faster than usual.
The guard, a burly man
whose face bore the marks of years of service, looked at her with a mixture of curiosity and
suspicion. “New detainee,” he muttered, adjusting his cap. “Never seen her before today. They say
she’s cunning, manipulative. You sure you want to go in, Miss Jones?” Luna nodded confidently,
clutching her notebook and laptop against her. “I’m here for the interview.” The guard shrugged,
unlocked the door with a metallic clank, and let her pass. “She’s cuffed and restrained. Harmless.
You’ve got nothing to worry about.” The door closed behind her with a sinister echo, and Luna
found herself alone with the mysterious prisoner.
"What’s your shoe size?"
The question, a low murmur that seemed to slither from the dark corner of the cell, froze Luna’s
fingers on her laptop keyboard. She had been typing notes about the peeling paint on the opposite
wall.
She turned slowly, the cheap plastic chair creaking beneath her. The figure on the metal-framed bed
hadn’t moved. It was still a portrait of absolute restraint: a shapeless body in a thick canvas
straitjacket, a black canvas hood completely obscuring her head. The silence stretched, thick and
heavy.
I… I’m sorry?” Luna finally managed, her professional composure cracking.
A dry, rasping laugh came from beneath the hood. “Your shoes. The black heels. They look
expensive. What size?”
A cold shiver ran down Luna’s spine. That’s why they call her unhinged, she thought, shaking her
head slightly. She decided to ignore it. This was an interview, not a fashion consultation. “Let’s get
back to my questions, Naomi.”
She turned her back on the prisoner, focusing on her screen. The guard’s words echoed in her mind:
“She’s cuffed and restrained. Harmless. You’ve got nothing to worry about, Miss Jones.”
The metallic clang of the cell door closing behind her felt like it had happened an eternity ago. She
had been so eager to get the scoop on the facility’s most notorious new inmate, the woman the
papers called a cunning manipulator. Now, locked in with her, the sterile environment felt
claustrophobic.
A soft rustling sound. Then a faint metallic click.
Luna’s breathing caught. She didn’t want to turn around. It was just the bed springs, she told herself.
Just the woman shifting.
Then, a warm presence directly behind her. Breath on her ear.
“I asked you a question.”
Luna spun around, the chair screeching against the concrete floor. Her heart hammered against her
ribs. Naomi stood over her, free. The straitjacket hung open at her waist like a bizarre apron. The
black hood lay crumpled on the floor. The ankle restraints, poorly secured by a careless guard, were
already unlocked and discarded.
And her face…
Luna’s world tilted, the air sucked from her lungs. She was staring into a mirror. The same high
cheekbones, the same full lips, the same piercing blue eyes. The same shade of black hair, though
Naomi’s was tangled and wild. They were perfect duplicates.
“How…?” Luna gasped, her voice a thin thread.
Naomi’s smile was a terrifying thing, all sharp angles and cold amusement. “Surprise, step-sister.”
Her eyes swept over Luna’s outfit: the tight black leather skirt, the sheer white blouse that barely
concealed her black lace bra, the fitted black leather jacket, the stockings, the impossible heels.
“Now. The shoes. Take them off.”
“No,” Luna whispered, shrinking back in her chair, but Naomi was on her in an instant. One hand
clamped over Luna’s mouth, muffling her cry. The other hand stayed free, but the threat in Naomi’s
eyes was enough. “The guard won’t hear you,” she hissed, her voice dropping to a venomous
whisper. “And if he does, he’ll see an inmate struggling and a calm journalist. Now, we’re going to
play a game. You’re going to take off every inch of clothing. Slowly. Or I’ll make you regret not
obeying.” The pressure of her hand and the glint in her gaze were unmistakable.
Tremors shook Luna’s body. Paralyzed by fear, her mind screamed in protest, but her body, under
threat, began to obey. This isn’t happening.
Her hands shook as she reached down, fumbling with the delicate buckle of her right shoe.
Naomi watched, her mirror eyes gleaming with predatory delight. The first shoe clattered to the
floor. Then the left. Luna’s bare feet instantly felt cold against the gritty concrete.
“The stockings,” Naomi commanded, her voice a low hum of anticipation.
Luna’s fingers hooked into the tops of her stockings. She hesitated—a final, feeble act of defiance.
Naomi tightened her grip over her mouth, a silent warning. Luna rolled the sheer black fabric down,
the material whispering against her skin as she peeled it from her thighs, over her knees, along her
calves. She let them drop to her ankles and stepped out, feeling utterly exposed.
“The skirt. Undo it.”
Every movement was agony. Luna’s trembling fingers found the zipper at the back of her tight
leather skirt. She pulled it down, the sound obscenely loud in the silent cell. The skirt loosened
around her hips. She pushed it down, cool air hitting her bare legs, and stepped out of the pooled
leather, leaving it on the floor.
“The blouse. The jacket. Everything.”
Tears welled in Luna’s eyes, blurring the image of her own face staring back at her with such cruel
intent. She unbuttoned her blouse with clumsy fingers, each button a tiny surrender. The silk slipped
from her shoulders, followed by the leather jacket. She stood in nothing but her black lace bra and
panties, her skin prickling with goosebumps and terror.
Naomi’s gaze felt like physical touch, roaming over her body, drinking in every detail.
Naomi said nothing. She simply began to dress, sliding Luna’s stockings on with sensual slowness,
smoothing them up her identical legs. She stepped into the leather skirt, zipped it with a definitive
zzzip. She buttoned the blouse, leaving a provocative gap at the top, and shrugged into the leather
jacket. Finally, she slipped her feet into Luna’s high heels. The transformation was complete. She
kept her own bra and panties, just as Luna kept hers.
She grabbed the discarded straitjacket. “Your turn.”
“Please, no,” Luna begged, her voice hoarse.
Naomi’s response was to shove her backward onto the bed. With brutal efficiency that spoke of
practice, she holds Luna’s arms into the thick canvas sleeves. Luna struggled, but Naomi was
disconcertingly strong, crossing the sleeves over Luna’s chest and tightening the straps firmly at the
back, effectively binding her arms. The rough material chafed her bare skin.
“No one will believe you,” Naomi murmured, her lips against Luna’s ear as she puts black hood down over her head. Darkness swallowed Luna. The world shrank to a smell:
rancid sweat, fear, and cheap canvas. She felt Naomi’s hands on her ankles, snapping the cold metal
restraints into place.
She heard the click of heels on concrete, heading toward the cell door.
“Guard” Naomi called, her voice a perfect imitation of Luna’s professional tone, tinged with just the
right amount of shaken fear. “Guard, help me .. She tried to… she almost took my clothes! She tried
to take my place ...”
The cell door groaned open. “Calm down now, Miss Jones,” said the familiar gruff voice of the
guard. “She’s restrained. She couldn’t have. I would’ve noticed.”
From beneath the hood, Luna screamed: “It’s her! She’s me! She’s pretending to be me!” But her
words were muffled, distorted by the thick fabric, emerging as desperate, incoherent gibberish.
She heard Naomi’s light, disdainful laugh. “She’s completely delusional. Raving.”
“Sounds like it,” the guard grunted. “Come on, Miss Jones, let’s get you out of here. You’ve had
quite a scare.”
The heels clicked away again. The cell door began to close with a deafening finality …