The Cultural Appreciation Program (CAP for short) is a program used as punishment for racial based discrimination in the workplace.
When Jaewon opened his eyes, the world felt strange and heavy.
The buzzing of the fluorescent lights above him mixed with the sterile chill of the CAP lab. He sat up slowly, feeling an unfamiliar weight in his chest and arms. A calm voice crackled over the intercom:
“Welcome, Jaewon. You are in the Cultural Appreciation Program facility in Oregon. Your swap is complete. Please remain seated while final scans are processed.”
It was real. After months of applications, screenings, and training sessions, his first CAP assignment had begun. He’d signed up for the program out of curiosity—a chance to experience life in a different body, a different country. The idea felt like something out of a science fiction novel, but here he was, living it.
And now he was inside the body of a young American man named Frank, sentenced to the program after harassing a Korean coworker at his job. Jaewon had no connection to the victim. He had simply been next in line.
He moved his hands—large, pale, veined. Powerful. Flexing his arms, he could feel the muscle under his skin, the strength that wasn’t his but now somehow was. He stood, catching a glimpse of himself in a wall mirror: tousled brown hair, sharp jawline, broad shoulders stretching the fabric of his tight brown tee. He lifted it and marveled at the sculpted abs beneath.
This body was athletic, attractive—nothing like his leaner, quieter frame back home.
A CAP assistant soon entered the room and handed him a phone and a small welcome packet. “You’ll find all your information inside. You have full access to Frank’s apartment, employment history, and spending account. We recommend laying low for the first couple of days as you adjust.”
“감사합…” he began instinctively—but stopped. That wasn’t right. What came out of his mouth sounded like: “Thank you.”
He blinked.
“Can I… speak Korean?” he asked, testing it again. “Annyeong—wait. Wait…” He tried again, and again English came out. In his mind, he could still think in Korean—he could hear the words clearly in his head—but his mouth didn’t follow.
“What the hell…” he muttered, then laughed nervously. “Okay, that’s weird.”
Language override. He remembered them mentioning this in orientation—something about the brain adapting to the vocal patterns and reflexes of the host body. But he didn’t expect it to feel so… disorienting. To think in Korean but only speak English? It made everything feel even more surreal.
As he began heading outside, the cultural shock hit him full force. People greeted him casually, without hesitation or suspicion. At the coffee shop down the street, the barista smiled brightly at him. “What can I get for you today?”
Jaewon hesitated, expecting to stutter—but the words came easily, naturally, with an American accent.
“Uh… just a black coffee. Medium.”
“Coming right up!”
He took a seat by the window, watching people pass on the sidewalk. In Korea, he’d grown used to second glances, judgmental looks, the occasional muttered comment. Here, he was just another guy. No one stared. No one whispered. It was peaceful in a way that almost felt unfair.
He looked down at his reflection in the glass. This wasn’t just a swap of skin. It was a swap of privilege. Of perception. Of freedom.
And as he sipped his coffee, flexed his new fingers, and listened to his thoughts swirl in Korean inside a mouth that only spoke English, Jaewon found himself smiling.
He didn’t want to go back.
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