A young New Yorker finds himself in over his head after finding a symbiote that changes him in unexpected ways.

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Chapter 12

I’m in a city—New York?

But it’s wrong.

The skyline’s the same, but everything else is shattered. Smoke curls like fingers from cracked pavement. Fire flickers from busted windows. Rubble clogs the streets, tangled with metal and the skeletons of abandoned cars. It’s too quiet. Like the city’s holding its breath… or already exhaled for the last time.

My heart starts pounding.

What happened…

The sky is red. Not sunset—wrong.

I hear a groan.

Spinning, I see someone sprawled across the street, half crushed beneath a chunk of building. His suit’s torn, red streaked with soot and blood.

Spider-Man.

No. No, no—he’s not supposed to be here like this. He’s not supposed to—

I run towards him crouching down.

His mask is half-off, one eye lens cracked.

“You could’ve saved us,” he chokes out, voice ragged. “But you wouldn’t let us help you.”

Blood bubbles at the corner of his mouth.

“Now we’re all dead… ‘cause of you.”

My breath catches.

“No,” I whisper. “No, that’s not— I didn’t—I couldn’t have stopped whatever this was. I wasn’t ready, I didn’t know—”

But the city keeps burning. Behind me, something explodes heat licking my back like a warning. The wind carries screams now, rising from ruins I can’t see.

I cover my ears. Shake my head. “I couldn’t have stopped it—”

“You didn’t even try,” he rasps, eyes glassy.

I stumble backward.

“No no no what happened I— I couldn’t have stopped whatever it— no—”

My legs give out. I hit the ground hard. The city rises around me like a broken mouth, teeth made of twisted steel and grief.

And swallows me.

I feel like I’m falling, fast, long.

There’s a lurch in my gut, then impact. I slam into something solid. The wind’s knocked out of me, pain blooming up my side.

Gasping, I push myself up. My palms scrape rough concrete. The skyline looms around me again, cracked and smoldering… but more familiar.

I blink hard.

I’m on the roof.

Our roof.

The paint-chipped vent, the rusted old lawn chair, the half-dead potted plant all of its here.

“How did I…” My voice shakes, thin and small in the burning air. “How did I get here?”

I stumble toward the roof door, chest tight. “I gotta figure out what happened—I… oh my god. Mom.”

Panic claws through me as I throw myself at the door, yanking the handle.

Nothing.

It won’t budge. Won’t even rattle. Like it’s been welded shut from the inside.

“No no no—Mom!” I shout, slamming my fist against the metal. “Are you down there?! Can you hear me?!”

No answer.

Then I hear something distant, low groans.

I freeze and slowly pull my hands away from the door.

Slowly—so slowly—I step to the edge of the roof and look down.

The street below is a nightmare.

Hordes of them—symbiotes—are moving in slow, sickening waves through the street. Twisting shapes in black and red and sickly gray. Some walk, some crawl. Their mouths hang open, teeth glistening. A spiral symbol in place of eyes.

They move like they’re hunting.

I can’t breathe.

“What the hell…”

And then—I feel them.

Not just see them.

Their rage, their hunger. An echo inside me… The symbiote in me shifts—alert. Not scared. Drawn.

“We know them,” it whispers.

The blood drains from my face.

“What do you mean we know them?”

But it doesn’t answer.

“How did this happen?” I whisper, staring down at the street—at them. My voice trembles with something between terror and guilt. “Did… did Alchemax do this?”

It had to be them. It had to be.

“They didn’t catch us,” I say aloud, like that makes it impossible. “They didn’t—I was careful. I was—”

But the words shatter mid-sentence.

Because suddenly—I’m not on the roof anymore.

The air changes. It becomes cold.

I’m in a lab.

And even though I’ve never seen this place before… I know it.

In my bones.

In my blood.

Like a memory I’m just now remembering.

Slick chrome. Blue-white lights. A glass wall flickering with red alarms. And me—strapped to a table. Arms spread, wrists cuffed in glowing restraints that burn where they touch.

“No no no—” I jerk against them, panic flaring like fire up my spine. “What is this?!”

The symbiote groans.

“Not again.”

The voice inside me is strained, pulled thin. “We were here. We died here.”

I look around, heart thudding. Through the fog of fear, I see shadows moving behind the glass—doctors? Scientists?

One of them steps forward. A clipboard in hand. He taps the glass twice.

“You were supposed to stay hidden,” he says, voice distorted through the intercom. “But you came back.”

“Run.” The voice in my head is urgent now. “We have to run—”

“I can’t,” I snap, pulling against the restraints. “I’m trapped—”

The lights flicker, and in that split-second of darkness… I see it.

A reflection in the glass. Not mine.

A figure in a containment tube.

Floating.

Still.

A girl.

And for a heartbeat—

I swear it looks… She looks like me.

Suddenly—

I’m in the tank.

The crushing cold of thick fluid around me, like syrup in my lungs, my veins, my thoughts. I try to scream but there’s no air—just the sharp sting of something seeping into me from all directions.

My hands float in front of me, weightless.

Not mine.

Smaller.

Paler.

Yet… Familiar.

I slam them against the glass, eyes wide with panic. Bubbles rising. Outside, everything is warped, shadows swimming past the glass like predators. I see the man with the clipboard again, but he’s older now. Or maybe I’m younger. It’s hard to tell through the haze.

The restraints aren’t on me. But I can’t move. My body just floats.

“This is where we died,” the symbiote whispers inside me. But even it sounds distant now. “This was our first.”

The girl. The one I saw in the reflection.

Suddenly I’m more aware of everything the hair that floats like silk around my face. The wires that pulse from the back of my skull. My skin marked with bruises. I reach up—and see her hand move too.

And then—I feel her pain.

Every injection. Every test. Every hour she screamed and no one listened.

Every day.

And the symbiote…

It didn’t escape with her.

It escaped because of her.

The tank darkens.

I hear a monitors steady beep turn to a continuous ringing.

I feel myself sinking as the last light fades…

Then in an instant I’m running.

Bare feet slap against cold floors. Sirens blare. Red light pulses down the hallway screaming danger. But none of this is me. Not really. It’s like watching a recording—one etched into my mind.

My breath is ragged. My body is slick—wet with whatever filled the tank and streaked with blood, my skin raw and trembling.

I’m naked—exposed and stumbling—but I don’t stop. I don’t care.

I duck past two guards who barely have time to turn before I’m gone, my limbs thrumming with desperation. I know this route. Or—she does.

A row of containment tubes looms ahead. Glass. Cold. Empty. Lined like coffins waiting to be filled. My—her hands fumble at one, trying to climb in, hide or escape or—

BANG.

A gunshot rips through the air and pain explodes in my side. It’s white-hot, electric—like the world tears open from the inside. I hit the ground hard, blood smearing across polished metal.

A scream of pain exits my mouth involuntarily.

But the I don’t— she doesn’t stop.

She claws forward, dragging herself by shaking arms. Every breath is a war. Every inch a rebellion.

Then they arrive.

Figures in white hazmat suits, faceless behind glass visors, circling like vultures. They carry tanks. Guns. One of them raises a barrel aiming towards me.

FWOOSH.

Fire.

It hits me every nerve in my body screaming in pain. I can feel it as my skin—skin melts. The symbiote inside me screams. The connection fractures.

And then—

I feel it.

It’s gone.

The symbiote tears free, severed, slipping across the floor in a blur of red and black. No one sees. No one notices. Flames hiding its retreat. My body—her body—collapses in a smoking heap.

But the symbiote moves. Quiet. Desperate.

It slithers to a sealed tube at the far end of the room—probably meant for waste or failed samples. It coils inside, wrapping tight.

The alarm screams as it triggers.

A computerized voice announces an unauthorized launch.

TOOM.

The tube fires like a bullet—out of the lab, out of the nightmare.

And into a dark, quiet alley—

Where I found it.

Where it found me.

I wake with a gasp—like surfacing from black water, lungs fighting for air that doesn’t taste like smoke or fire.

My skin is cold. My heart won’t stop pounding. I feel sweat clinging to my back, dampening the blanket. For a second, I can’t move. Can’t speak. Can only feel—

The pain.

The fear.

The desperation.

And worst of all—the moment it was all ripped away.

My hands tremble as I sit up, blinking into the faint early light cutting through the blinds. The apartment is still. Safe. Luca’s still curled on the armchair. Harper’s blanket slipped halfway over her.

“That wasn’t my dream,” I whisper.

“No.”

The voice in my head is low. Raw. There’s something shaken in it, something unfamiliar.

“That was yours,” I murmur, wrapping my arms around my knees. “At the end… that was you.”

A pause.

“Yes.”

Just one word.

But it lands like a stone.

My throat tightens. “That really happened, didn’t it? That was her. Your old host.”

Another pause. Longer this time. Like the symbiote is remembering in ways that hurt.

“She saved us.”

The words crawl through me and I feel its pain. For her. The girl who died to free it.

I blink against the sting in my eyes, the weight of a memory that isn’t mine pressing down on my chest.

“She didn’t deserve that,” I whisper.

“No.”

I don’t say anything after that.

I just sit there in the quiet morning light, holding onto the feeling.

The city. The lab.

Two nightmares for the price of one.

I drop my head into my hands, rubbing at my eyes like I can scrub out what I just saw—what I felt. But it’s burned in there now. The fire. The tank. Her. And the weight of a world I didn’t live but somehow still remember.

My stomach twists again. Not just from the memory—but from real, physical pain.

“Ugh,” I groan. “Still hurts.”

“It will for a while,” the symbiote says, calm as ever.

“Great. And how do you know?” I snap, then wince. “Oh. Right. Sorry…”

The silence between us suddenly feels thick.

I sit up slowly, the blanket pooling in my lap. The morning light is stronger now, gold crawling across the floor. I glance toward the others. Still asleep. Still peaceful.

The words come out before I can second-guess them.

“Would you… want to talk about her?”

The symbiote goes still inside me. Quieter than quiet.

“No.”

“Okay,” I murmur. “Maybe later.”

“Maybe.”

Another silence grows between us.

And even though it doesn’t say anything else, I can feel it almost curling around me, protective and uncertain. Like someone that’s lost something too many times and doesn’t know how to grieve it.

So I don’t push.

I just sit there.

Letting us both feel it.

The creak of a door pulls me out of my thoughts, and a moment later, Mom steps out into the living room in her scrubs—hair pulled back, work bag slung over one shoulder.

She gives me a sleepy smile. “You’re up early.”

“Couldn’t sleep,” I mumble, shuffling after her as she heads into the kitchen. Well, kitchen is generous—it’s really just a corner of the apartment with a stove, a dented microwave, and an eternal scent of burnt toast.

She starts the coffee pot and yawns behind her wrist. I lean against the wall just outside the entryway, arms crossed.

“Another day shift?” I ask, more casually than I feel.

“Mmhm,” she says, grabbing a mug from the cabinet. “They’re finally hired some more nurses, so night shifts won’t have to be so frequent.”

“That’s… good.” I nod, then wince. A dull ache pulses low in my stomach again, sharp enough to make me exhale through my teeth.

Her head snaps around instantly. “What’s wrong?”

“I, uh…” I rub my stomach awkwardly. “Well, my first period started. Yay.”

Her eyes widen. “Oh honey—are you okay? Do you need help? You’re gonna—”

“It’s okay,” I cut in quickly, cheeks already on fire. “Harper helped me. Already.”

Mom blinks. “Harper helped you. A seventeen-year-old girl. With her friend’s first period.”

“Yeah,” I say, voice cracking slightly. “I just told her I was a late bloomer.”

She just stares at me over the coffee mug.

“And… she bought that,” she says slowly, like she’s trying to make the math work in her head and failing.

I give her the most awkward smile in human history. “Apparently? I mean—kind of? It’s Harper. She didn’t ask too many questions.”

Mom sets her mug down with the deliberate caution of someone trying very hard not to spiral. “And she didn’t… think it was strange that her friend, who just moved here happened to have her first period at seventeen and needed a crash course on it?”

“Wow,” I mutter, “when you say it out loud like that, it sounds super suspicious.”

She pinches the bridge of her nose.

“Look,” I say quickly, “she didn’t press. And she was really nice about it. Actually made it kinda… survivable.”

Mom’s expression softens a little at that.

“She’s a good kid,” she murmurs, more to herself than to me.

I nod, awkwardly poking at a spoon on the counter. “Yeah. She is.”

She sighs again—less stress, more resignation—and picks her mug back up. “Well. I guess there are worse people to have in your corner for your first period.”

I grin faintly. “Yeah. I lucked out.”

For a second, we just stand there—coffee brewing, sunlight creeping over the counter.

Mom leans against the counter, sipping her coffee in that slow, thoughtful way she does when she wants to say something… but hasn’t decided if it’s worth it. Her eyes flick to me, then away. Then back. Her lips press together like she’s weighing a mini-lecture in her head.

Here it comes.

But then—nothing. She just sips again.

Huh.

Normally she’d be on me about not “exposing” myself. About Harper knowing too much. About the risks. But this time… she doesn’t. No tight-voiced warnings. No sideways guilt trips.

That’s weird.

“She is being nice because you are going to be emotional,” the symbiote offers helpfully.

I blink. “Oh. Right.” I grimace. “That comes with the periods too…”

“Yes.”

I cross my arms. “Well, I can handle it. I mean—hell—I survived a gender shift, an alien bonding with me. Emotional stuff? Please.”

“Mhm.”

I narrow my eyes. “Mhm? What do you mean ‘mhm’? That sounded judgy.”

“Everything you’ve stressed about the past week will feel worse. More difficult. Until the hormonal cycle stabilizes. Which could take… days.”

I stare at nothing in particular for a long moment.

“…You’re telling me I have a boss battle’s worth of mood swings to look forward to on top of everything else?”

“Yes. Likely accompanied by self-doubt and crying for no reason.”

I groan and bury my face in my hands. “Great. Emotional hard mode unlocked.”

“You have already been on hard mode,” it says softly.

“You just said this would make everything worse,” I grumble, dragging my fingers down my face. “So wouldn’t that technically mean it’s like… extra hard mode now?”

“Yes.”

“Cool. I hate my life.”

“Calm down.”

“I am calm,” I snap. “That’s a normal reaction from me, okay?”

“It is probably time for your chocolate.”

I blink. “What.”

“So you do not decide to eat anyone.”

“…For the enzyme?” I offer, only half-sarcastic.

“Sure.”

I sigh and open the box tearing a wrapper open and taking a bite.

I lean against the counter, letting the chocolate melt on my tongue and wondering how my life got this complicated.

Oh right. Alien goo.

And Harper.

And a city full of secrets.

And now, a uterus with a vengeance.

Awesome.

Just… awesome.

Mom finishes the last sip of her coffee, sets the mug in the sink, and grabs her keys from the little dish by the door. She glances back at me, and her voice softens.

“Alright, sweetie—I’m off to work. But remember…” She points with one perfectly timed Mom Finger, “it’s a school day today.”

I blink at her like she’s just said I need to climb Mount Everest with a cramp and a blindfold. “I… still have to go?”

She just smiles. That quiet, knowing, I’m-the-adult-here kind of smile. “Yup.”

Then she slips out the door like she didn’t just ruin my morning.

The door clicks shut behind her, and I’m left with just my own disbelief.

“School,” I mutter to myself. “Sure. With this body. This pain.”

“At least you have Harper and Luca to keep you company on the way,” the symbiote offers helpfully.

“Yeah. Sure.” I exhale and pop the last bit of chocolate in my mouth. “Can’t wait to limp my way through gym class.”

“It’s probably time to get ready,” the symbiote says, like it’s my mom’s second act.

“Yeah, I know,” I grumble, dragging my feet toward my bedroom.

“Touchy,” it murmurs.

I pause halfway through the doorway, eyes narrowing. “I’m not being touchy. Stop that.”

I sigh dramatically and yank open my dresser drawer. Clothes stare back at me like a decision I’m not emotionally prepared to make. Not today.

“Just pick something comfortable,” I mutter. “Something Harper won’t roast me for. Something that won’t get caught in a locker door.”

The drawer offers me a crop top.

“We could wear the suit instead.”

“No,” I say immediately. “I’m not wearing you.”

“Coward.”

I roll my eyes and grab the hoodie instead.

Let Harper fight me. I dare her.

Today? I’m choosing survival.

I shuffle back into the living room, hoodie in hand, fully prepared to just exist in soft cotton defiance of everything Harper stands for, but...

She’s already awake, folding the blanket she slept under with military precision, which is extra impressive considering she looks like she styled herself straight out of a Pinterest board in her sleep.

Her eyes lock onto the hoodie like it personally offended her.

“No way,” she says, one brow arching. “You are not wearing that hoodie after we spent all day yesterday finding you clothes that don’t look like they’re from the witness protection program.”

I clutch it tighter. “Harper…”

“You agreed to wear them.”

“That was before my body declared war on me.”

She plants her hands on her hips, undeterred. “Too bad. It’s happening. Come on—I’ll help you.”

She’s already moving toward my room before I can argue, the folded blanket tossed perfectly onto the couch like a mic drop. I consider fighting it. I really do.

But Harper on a mission?

Unstoppable.

I drag my feet after her like I’m heading to the gallows. “I swear if you make me wear a skirt…”

She throws a wicked smile over her shoulder. “Only if it comes with a side of empowerment and emotional resilience.”

I groan.

The symbiote whispers, smug: “She will win.”

“Yeah.”

“I know.”

When I step into my room, Harper’s already got half my closet open and is flipping through hangers like some kind of tornado. Clothes fly, fabric rustles, and I stand there, still holding the hoodie like a security blanket I’m about to be forced to surrender.

“No jeans,” she mutters. “Not today. Too much zipper risk with cramp rage. Let’s go soft, flowy, and still killer.”

“You’re describing a ghost,” I grumble.

She holds up a black midi skirt with little white flowers and a soft cropped sweater like she’s just found the holy grail.

“This,” she says, “screams ‘I’m effortlessly stylish but might also punch you if you touch my fries.’ It’s perfect.”

I stare at it. Then at her. “That is way too cute for a day where I want to lay down and die.”

“You’re already cute,” she fires back with a wink. “You might as well weaponize it.”

“Harper,” I whine, but she’s not listening—she’s already pushing me gently toward the bed, dropping the outfit beside me.

“Trust me. The power of a good outfit during a hormonal catastrophe is real.”

“She seems to speak with wisdom,” the symbiote murmurs.

I flop onto the mattress. “Traitors. Both of you.”

She grins, stepping back. “Get changed. You owe me.”

I groan into my pillow, but after a beat, I sit up, grabbing the clothes.

“Fine. But I’m still wearing sneakers.”

“Deal.”

And somehow, as I pull the outfit on, something that almost feels good settles on my skin—

I don’t hate it.

I might even…

God help me. Harper’s winning.

Again.

I stare at myself in the mirror, pulling the cropped sweater into place, the hem just barely brushing the top of the skirt. The whole look hugs in the right places, floats in others. My hair’s still a bit of a mess, but it kinda… works?

I tilt my head.

I feel…

“Hot?” the symbiote offers, voice practically smirking in my skull.

“No,” I snap out loud. “That’s not what I was thinking.”

“Yes it was.”

“Shut up.”

“We are not wrong.”

I press both hands to my face, dragging them down slowly. My reflection stares back at me, slightly flushed, exasperated, and—ugh—okay, fine.

I don’t look terrible.

I look… like a girl.

Not just in the technical, ‘biology says so’ way. But in the Harper would whistle kind of way. In the passing glance from strangers on the sidewalk kind of way. The kind that feels powerful, and terrifying, and a little bit like a lie I accidentally made true.

“You’re thinking about it again,” the symbiote hums.

“I will jump out the window.”

“We would be fine.”

“That’s not the point!”

I hear Harper’s voice from the other room. “You better not be backing out in there, Maple Leaf!”

I take a deep breath.

Then open the door.

The second I step out of my room, Harper does a full-body turn like she’s about to judge an Olympic event. Her eyes sweep over me once, then again, and then—slowly—her mouth stretches into the kind of smirk that makes my stomach drop and flutter all at once.

“Okay,” she says, voice low and smug. “Okay. You’re lucky I’m already seated or I’d have to do a slow clap.”

I cross my arms instinctively. “It’s not that serious.”

Harper walks a slow circle around me like she’s checking for fashion irregularities or secret compartments. “The skirt hits just right, the sweater’s doing all kinds of subtle damage, and that little ‘I didn’t try but still look like I could ruin lives’ vibe? Chef’s kiss.”

“You’re exaggerating,” I mutter, but I can feel the blush climbing up my neck.

Luca shuffles in from the couch, yawning and rubbing his eyes. He looks up and stops.

He just stares.

“…Dude,” he says.

I blink. “What?”

“You look like you should be on a book cover or something. Like a magical girl who’s secretly a sword.”

Harper lets out an unholy cackle.

I bury my face in my hands. “Can we please just go to school before this discussion continues.”

Luca tosses me a wink. “No promises.”

I sigh dramatically, grab my backpack, and march toward the door. “I hate both of you.”

“We do not.”

“Still not the point!”

Harper opens the door with a flourish. “Off we go, fashion-forward disaster girl. Let’s ruin some hallways.”

The walk to school is… weirdly tolerable.

I’m still low key dying inside from cramps, and Harper keeps threatening to take photos like this is a red carpet, but… I don’t hate hate it. Luca’s humming along to something on his headphones, periodically offering me bites of whatever snack he stuffed in his hoodie pocket. Harper talks the whole time, of course—mostly about which people are going to “accidentally walk into lockers” when they see me today.

I roll my eyes, but my chest feels lighter and tighter somehow.

We round the corner to Midtown High, and the second the building comes into view, that tight knot in my stomach curls a little harder—not just cramps now, but nerves. There’s the familiar rust-red brick, the chipped flagpole, the flickering security cam that probably hasn’t worked in years.

We hit the sidewalk swells of students pouring in. Conversations overlap like white noise—talk of last night’s homework, a broken vending machine, someone’s breakup turning into a group chat civil war.

Harper leans in. “You ready for your grand entrance?”

Then we step onto campus—and heads start to turn.

It’s subtle at first. A double take here. A whisper there. A few students elbow each other as we pass.

A cluster of girls glance over—one of them gives a nod of approval, the universal ‘okay, you did that’ look.

Luca whistles low. “Daaaang, we’re not even inside and you’re already breaking necks.”

“Please stop talking,” I say through clenched teeth.

Harper glances over, smug and satisfied. “Told you.”

I both hate and… weirdly like this.

The eyes. The attention. The whispers.

It’s like standing under a spotlight I never asked for—but for once, it’s not burning me alive.

It feels… good?

Not in a vanity way, not like Harper’s dramatic nonsense—but in a quiet, shaky, maybe I’m actually okay kind of way.

To be considered—

Attractive?

God. I don’t even know. The word makes me want to crawl under my bed and never come out again. But also—

Also.

There’s a strange power in it.

I shake the thought off as Harper and Luca split off at the lockers, Harper yelling something about finding me at lunch for ‘damage control and touch-ups.’

I barely nod. I’m too busy navigating the emotional minefield of homeroom.

I slip into the classroom just before the bell rings. The teacher doesn’t look up from his laptop. The fluorescent lights buzz overhead, casting everything in that weird, too-white haze.

I slide into my seat near the back, still tugging at the hem of the sweater like it’ll save me from existing.

Someone a few rows up turns. A guy—I think his name’s Chris? Baseball cap. Usually glued to his phone.

He blinks.

Then gives me a look. Not creepy thankfully. Just… noticing.

I stare at my desk like it holds the secrets of the universe.

“You are being perceived,” the symbiote murmurs, smug as ever.

“I noticed.”

“You are not angry about it.”

“I didn’t say I liked it.”

A pause.

“…But you do.”

I bury my face in my arms and mutter into the desk, “Idon’tknowokay?!”

The teacher clears his throat.

“Miss Coleman. Something you’d like to share with the class?”

I go still.

Half the room turns.

And I die a little inside.

“…No,” I mutter, cheeks on fire.

He goes back to his laptop.

I stare at the desk and think

Every. Freaking. Day.

New body, new face, new wardrobe, new horrors. Every time I think I’ve hit the limit of “weird things to emotionally unravel before noon,” life just tosses another complication on the pile like it’s building a monument.

First period in more ways than one…

By the time the bell rings, my brain’s fried. I scoop up my stuff, ready to make the quickest exit known to man—

“Miss Coleman?”

My heart flatlines.

The teachers voice cuts through the noise like a guillotine. He’s standing by the desk, arms crossed, expression unreadable.

I stop. Stiffen.

“…Yes?”

He glances down at something on his screen, then looks back at me.

“The principal wants to see you.”

I can’t help it—audible gulp. Like, comedic timing gulp. My stomach drops straight through the floor.

“Oh. I… okay,” I manage, way too small.

He nods, like it’s no big deal. “You’re excused from next period. They said to head down now.”

I turn robotically, backpack clutched a little too tight.

“This could be about ‘Us’,” the symbiote murmurs.

“No why would it be that?”

“Would you like me to initiate a distraction maybe the fire alarm?”

“No! No… let’s just… go.”

Each step down the hall feels heavier.

I try not to think of surveillance. Of Alchemax.

I try not to think at all.

But my fingers won’t stop trembling.

And the principal’s office door is just up ahead. Waiting.

It’s gonna be something bad, I think, stomach knotting tighter with every step. I just know it.

The hallway’s too quiet.

Too echoey.

The kind of quiet that feels like it’s waiting for a trap to spring.

When I reach the office, the receptionist barely glances up. “You can go in.”

Just like that.

Like this isn’t the part of the horror movie where the audience starts screaming, Don’t go in there!

I force myself to push the door open.

A woman in a navy blazer sits behind a desk—neat, pleasant, way too practiced in that I’m not mad, just administratively disappointed expression. Her nameplate says Ms. Alvarez, but the look in her eyes says I notice everything.

She smiles. “Hello. Elisa, right?”

My voice feels like sandpaper. “Yeah… that’s me.”

She gestures for me to sit. “Don’t worry, you’re not in trouble. We just wanted to follow up.”

I nod, lowering myself into the chair like it’s going to bite me. “Okay. Um… what’s this about?”

She pulls up something on her computer, clicking casually like she doesn’t realize my pulse just doubled.

“We still haven’t received any of your academic records,” she says. “From your previous school.”

My brain stutters.

Records.

Oh. God.

I’d nearly forgotten.

When we first re-enrolled me as Elisa. Someone was supposed to send over records from ‘my school’ in Canada. But that was days ago.

And they still have nothing... Obviously…

I swallow hard. “Right. Uh… yeah. They were supposed to be sent. From—Canada. It’s just probably taking longer. With, um, international stuff.”

Ms. Alvarez raises an eyebrow friendly, but skeptical. “We usually receive those within 48 hours, especially from digital systems.”

“I’ll… check with my aunt?” I offer, voice way too high, way too fake.

“We are in danger,” the symbiote says coolly.

“Thanks,” I think back. “I hadn’t noticed.”

Ms. Alvarez nods slowly, still smiling.

“Just follow up soon, alright?” she says, closing the file. “We don’t want any issues with state compliance. Or…” She tilts her head slightly. “Enrollment legitimacy.”

I manage a weak smile. “Of course.”

And then I leave the office.

Heart thudding. Breath short.

Because the lie is starting to fray at the edges.

And if one person pulls too hard—

The whole thing comes undone.

Damnit…

I sulk down the hallway, trying to keep my pace steady, but inside I’m unraveling thread by thread. My hands curl into fists at my sides. My head won’t stop spinning.

I don’t know what I thought. That they’d just forget? That this—all of this—would just work itself out?

“I guess I just assumed,” I mutter under my breath, “that it’d be back to normal by the time it mattered…”

But it’s not.

It’s never going back.

I push open the door to the girls’ bathroom and duck into the far stall, locking it before I slide down against the wall. I press my palms over my face like I can shove the panic down physically.

“How am I supposed to get through life,” I whisper, voice cracking, “when Elisa doesn’t even exist?”

No social security number. No birth certificate. No transcripts. No identity.

Just a name I made up because ‘Arin’ couldn’t explain what happened to him.

Just a girl made of bad luck and alien goo.

“We exist,” the symbiote murmurs in my head, quieter now.

“Yeah, well, that’s not the same as being able to file taxes,” I hiss.

“We could steal someone’s identity.”

I groan into my hands. “Not helping.”

“…Create a new one?”

“You don’t just create a life from scratch! You need records, ID, proof—something!” I feel the tears start to burn behind my eyes and blink hard. “People can’t live as ghosts forever.”

The worst part is, I wasn’t even trying to game the system. I wasn’t trying to lie. I just… didn’t know what else to do. I just wanted to try to live some version of a life.

But how do you keep living a lie that has no paperwork?

How do you go back to school when you aren’t even real?

I sit there for a long moment, knees drawn to my chest.

Wishing I had answers.

Wishing I could go back.

Wishing—

No.

I don’t want to go back.

I just want to belong.

Even if I’m not sure where.

Even if the whole world’s trying to remind me I don’t.

I freeze.

Still huddled there in the stall, still trying to breathe past the twist in my gut—and then that voice slides into my thoughts, not cruel, not commanding.

“You’re going to have to tell the truth.”

I blink hard. “What?”

“Or at least part of it.”

Something cold settles in my chest. I shift slightly, my arms tightening around my knees. “Which means…?”

“You can say you transitioned.”

My mouth goes dry. “That’s not the truth.”

A pause.

“You were a boy,” the symbiote says evenly. “Now you are a girl. That seems accurate.”

I stare at the metal wall in front of me like it might offer a way out. Like it might argue for me.

“I didn’t choose this,” I whisper. “I didn’t… decide to become a girl. I didn’t want to. It just—happened. I didn’t go through what real trans people go through.”

“That does not make it less real.”

I don’t answer.

Because I don’t know how.

The word transitioned carries so much with it. History. Struggle. Identity. A whole map of pain and courage that I stumbled into like a massive accident. And now the idea of claiming it—like I earned it—feels like stealing.

But…

If I don’t say something, people are going to ask questions I can’t answer.

And this?

This might be the closest I’ll ever get to a truth they’ll understand.

I rest my head back against the cold stall wall.

“So what? I just… say I transitioned? Say I’m trans and hope they don’t ask for details I can’t give?”

“Say what you need to say to survive.”

That lands harder than I expect.

Because isn’t that what I’ve been doing since day one?

Surviving?

My throat tightens again, but this time—not from pure panic.

From choice.

Because maybe this isn’t lying.

Maybe it’s just…

Simplifying the truth.

And maybe that’s enough for now…

“But people will judge me too…” I murmur, voice barely above a breath.

“Are people not accepting of this now?” the symbiote asks, genuinely curious. It’s not mocking. Just trying to understand.

I let out a tired breath. “I mean… nice people are. But there’s a lot of people who either don’t get it or just—” I hesitate. The words feel sharp in my mouth. “Just suck. They hate people like… like me, I guess.”

There’s a pause, and I feel the symbiote curl a little tighter, like a silent hug from inside.

“Why does it matter what ‘people’ think? You already know your people don’t care. Luca. Harper. Claire. Even your mother. Strangers’ opinions don’t matter.”

“I know.”

I say it fast, almost snapping. Because I do know.

But it doesn’t help.

Not all the way…

“Then why do they matter to you?”

I squeeze my eyes shut. My throat feels tight again—like it always does when someone asks something real.

“I don’t know,” I whisper. “It just does.”

It’s stupid. But it’s true.

Because I want people to see me and not be weirded out. I want to walk into a room and not brace for the whisper, the laugh, the side-eye. I want to be normal, even when I know I’m not. Even when I know I’ll never get all the way there.

I want to feel like I belong in this world I didn’t ask for.

And sometimes—a lot of the time—strangers feel like judges with invisible gavels. People in hallways. Online. On sidewalks. Their glances become verdicts. And I know they shouldn’t matter—

But they do.

Because I’m still learning how to matter to myself.

“You will need to inform your mother of the imminent expulsion from school when you return home.”

The symbiote says it with all the subtlety of a meteor strike.

I groan and press my forehead against the cool metal wall of the stall. “Yeah,” I mutter. “I know.”

Of course I have to tell her. There’s no avoiding it. I can already see her face—tired, concerned, a little angry, but mostly disappointed in a way that’ll hit harder than anything else. And not because she’ll be mad at me—but because she’s terrified. That I’ll be found. That the whole thing will unravel.

That she won’t be able to protect me.

I sigh, dragging my fingers down my face. “It’s not even like I did anything wrong.”

“You existed in a system that was not built for you.”

“Yeah. That sounds about right.”

I rest there for a long moment.

Trying to build the courage to get up.

To walk out that door.

To face the next half of a day pretending like I’m a normal girl with normal problems, and not a secret alien-powered identity crisis.

“…I’ll tell her,” I say, finally.

“Good. We will be there.”

“Like either of us have a choice about you being there,” I mutter, tugging the stall door open.

“Rude.”

“Yeah, well, I’m on my period. I think I get a pass.”

A pause.

“I am as well, essentially. Did you not hear what Spider-Man said? Emotions are felt by both of us.”

I groan. “Don’t quote him at me.”

“I’m not quoting. I’m reminding.”

I step out into the mirror-lit quiet of the bathroom, glancing at my reflection like I’m hoping to see a version of me who’s got it together.

“You don’t even seem affected.”

“I’m being strong for you,” it says with mock dignity. “I’m supportive.”

I pause mid-brush. “You are so full of it.”

“Possibly.”

I snort against my will.

“You’re welcome,” it adds.

I sigh, shaking my head. “Okay, okay. Thanks… I guess.”

The day’s not over. The truth still has to come out. But for now—

I breathe.

And I walk back into the hallway. One step at a time.

Just gotta get through the day.

And the next.

And the next.

And the next.

And the next.

And the next.

And eventually—

Eventually I won’t mind being a girl at all.

Or having a sentient goo buddy.

Or lying to my school. And everyone.

Or pretending I know who I am.

Or wondering what it would’ve been like if none of this had happened—if I’d just walked past that alley, kept my head down, gone home and stayed Arin.

Eventually I won’t care.

Right?

I close my locker gently. “One day at a time,” I mutter.

“One breath at a time,” the symbiote echoes, quieter than usual.

I nod.

Because yeah. I’m tired of fighting it.

Tired of flinching every time I see myself in the mirror.

Tired of wondering if I’m real enough for this life I didn’t choose.

But maybe—if I keep surviving long enough—I’ll get there.

Maybe I’ll wake up one morning and this won’t feel like a mask anymore.

It’ll just be me.

And maybe that’ll be okay.

School goes by in that weird blur where everything technically happens, but your brain’s not really there for it.

Classes drone on. Notes get half-taken. Harper flirts with the line between being a blessing and a public menace. Luca falls asleep during a class again. Teachers mostly ignore me, which I’m deeply grateful for—though I catch a few extra stares. Mostly from people clocking the outfit, not the existential crisis inside it.

Outside of the new clothes, the cramps, and the ever-lurking fear that my entire life might collapse if one person sneezes in the wrong direction—

It’s… mostly normal.

Mostly.

And then—finally—

The bell rings.

The bell.

The sacred, holy sound of academic release.

I grab my bag like it’s the last helicopter out of a disaster zone and book it down the hallway, Harper and Luca falling in beside me.

“Freeeeeedom,” Harper sings, arms raised to the ceiling.

We push out through the double doors, the sun already beginning to dip low in the sky. It’s that soft golden hour where everything looks prettier than it really is.

And even though my body’s a mess and my brain’s a tangle and I have no idea what I’m going to tell my mom when I get home—

As we step outside, I glance up—can’t help it. The rooftops line the horizon like jagged teeth, lit gold and orange by the setting sun. They look still. Peaceful.

Like escape.

And for a second, I can almost feel it again—the rush, the wind in my hair, the dizzy joy of flying above the world like I didn’t belong to it anymore.

“You can’t,” the symbiote says, soft but certain.

“I can’t what?” I think back.

“Swing.”

My chest tightens.

“I know,” I answer. “I don’t want to.”

“You don’t have to lie to me. I already know.”

I sigh, eyes still fixed on the skyline.

“Okay. Fine. Nosy.” I shove my hands into my sleeves. “I know I can’t. It’s not safe. It’s risky. Someone could see. Alchemax could find us. I could mess up and fall or… worse.”

A pause.

“But I liked how it felt before.”

“I know.”

The memory clings to me like phantom weight—the first time I leapt off the roof, heart in my throat, and didn’t fall. When I flew. Not because someone gave me wings, but because something inside me finally let go.

But now… that same thing could ruin everything.

And yet—

I still want it.

Not now.

Not today.

But soon.

Maybe.

“I miss it,” I whisper, just loud enough for myself.

And the symbiote doesn’t answer.

But I feel it settle against my spine, gentle and warm.

It misses it, too.

End of chapter 12