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

Chapter 2 Someone who can help.

I open the door, trying to smooth down my shirt and my thoughts at the same time. I’m still shaky, still haunted by the dream—by how it felt. But I push it down. Bury it. Lock it behind whatever version of me can still fake normal.

Mom’s standing in the hallway, arms crossed, but her face isn’t stern—it’s careful. Like she’s stepping around broken glass.

“I wasn’t planning on her coming here,” she says, “but… she thought it’d be best to see you in person.”

I blink, frowning. “Who?”

“Claire,” she says. “She’s a friend. Used to be a nurse. And… well, she’s dealt with this kind of thing before.”

My stomach flips.

“This kind of—what, alien goo possessing your kid and turning him into—?”

Mom holds up a hand. “I know. Believe me, I know. But Claire’s different. She’s seen weird. And she’s safe.”

I open my mouth to ask more, but she just shakes her head.

“I’ll let her explain.”

I glance past her, toward the living room, and catch a glimpse—someone standing just beyond the edge of the frame, silhouette lit by soft afternoon light.

Someone waiting.

I step into the hall, each movement stiff like my body’s still figuring itself out—like I’m trying to walk off what just happened.

Forget it. Just forget it.

I’m a guy.

Or… I was.

I should be.

This body, that dream—it’s not me. It’s what the symbiote did. Some kind of screw-up. A glitch. A manipulation. I didn’t ask for this.

I didn’t want any of this.

I steel my shoulders and follow Mom into the living room.

That’s when she turns to me.

The woman—Claire—is older than Mom by a few years maybe, but she’s got the same kind of presence calm, steady, experienced. She’s wearing dark jeans, a fitted jacket, and eyes like she’s seen too much to ever be surprised again.

“Arin, right?”

Her voice is low. Kind. But not patronizing.

I hesitate.

“Uh… yeah.”

She nods slowly.

“I’m here to help,” she says. “If you’ll let me.”

She walks over and sets her bag gently on the coffee table, like she’s been in this position a hundred times before.

“I used to be a nurse,” she says casually, without looking up. “Not anymore. Now I just… help people. The kind who can’t walk into a hospital.”

I blink. “Wait. What does that mean?”

She gives me a small smile. “Let’s just say I’ve seen my share of weird. Powers, accidents, genetic messes, alien crap—symbiotes included.”

I swallow. “So you’ve seen someone like me before?”

She looks up at me—right in the eyes—and nods. “Yeah. More than once.”

She pulls out a small scanner—Stark-tech by the look of it—and sets it aside like she’s not quite ready to use it yet.

“I’ve patched up people who shoot fire when they sneeze, and I’ve kept more masks alive than I can count. Most of them don’t even know their blood types. But I’ve never met anyone who went through a shift like yours without something snapping.”

I wince at that.

She notices. Her voice softens.

“You didn’t though. You’re still standing. You’re asking questions. That’s good.”

I nod slowly, unsure what to say.

Claire watches me for a moment longer, then gently asks

“You want to tell me what it felt like?”

I hesitate.

Because I do.

But I don’t know how to say it…

“It felt like my body was ripping apart,” I say quietly, fingers curling into the edge of my sleeves. “Every nerve, every inch of me just—changing. I couldn’t stop it. Couldn’t breathe. And then when it was done…”

I trail off.

Claire doesn’t interrupt. She just listens.

And then, calm as ever, she says, “Symbiotes are dangerous. I won’t lie and say this isn’t bad or scary.”

I brace myself. Here it comes.

“There’s a but coming, right?”

She smirks—just a little, just enough. “But… they aren’t all bad. Not necessarily. It depends on the symbiote. Just like humans. Some are violent. Some are confused. Some are just trying to survive.”

I stare at her. The hum inside me stirs, faint and quiet.

“…And if mine is bad?”

Claire’s smile fades. “Then one of my contacts can help. There are people who… deal with this. Safely.”

I nod, but the real question’s already clawing its way out.

“And what about what it did to me?”

She hesitates. That’s not a good sign.

“I’m not sure,” she admits. “As far as I’ve seen, symbiotes don’t usually make changes that drastic. Muscle growth, sometimes. Healing. Enhanced reflexes. But full physical reconstruction?”

Her brows furrow slightly.

“That’s not standard.”

“So you don’t know why,” I say flatly.

“No,” she says. “But we’re going to find out.”

And somehow, the way she says it makes me believe her.

Before I can ask the next question, Mom speaks up from behind me. Her arms are crossed again—classic concerned parent posture—but there’s steel under her voice now.

“What about Alchemax?” she asks, sharp and direct.

Claire turns toward her, nodding like she was expecting the question. “I figured that was coming.”

She lowers herself into the armchair across from us and laces her fingers together.

“They’ve had their hands in this kind of tech before—biogenetics, symbiotic trials, even off-world materials they shouldn’t have in the first place. A few years back, they were working on a program… something off the books. I never saw a name. But people disappeared.”

I feel my stomach twist. “They made this?”

Claire glances at me, expression unreadable. “If I had to guess? They tried to replicate what bonded with Venom. Might’ve even engineered something from the same genetic structure, or they found a symbiote somehow and where trying to do something with it until—”

“They lost control of it,” Mom says, jaw clenched.

“Or they never had control at all,” Claire adds.

I blink slowly, heart pounding. “So this thing… me… I’m part of some Alchemax experiment?”

Claire looks me in the eyes. “Maybe. Maybe not. But if they know you have it?”

She leans forward.

“They won’t let you go quietly.”

“If you help superheroes, can’t you—can’t you tell them to stop Alchemax? I mean, it’s not like it’s a big secret they’re an evil mega corporation. Everyone knows they’re shady as hell.”

Claire meets my eyes again, steady and unshaken.

“It’s not that easy.”

I throw up my hands. “Why not? They’ve got power, right? Suits, gadgets, gods flying through the sky—can’t one of them just walk in there and say, ‘Hey, maybe stop making alien horror’?”

Claire sighs, rubbing her temples. “Because power doesn’t always mean access. Alchemax has protections—government contracts, black-ops clearance, private security tied to people with deep pockets. And more importantly? Heroes don’t act without proof. Not real ones.”

“Even Spider-Man?” I ask, voice low.

Claire smirks faintly at that. “Especially Spider-Man. He wouldn’t go near Alchemax without a reason.”

I sit down hard, frustration tightening my jaw.

“So what, we just wait around while they try to clean up their ‘accident’?”

“No.” Claire leans forward again, voice quieter now. “We be smart. We be careful. And we get proof.”

She glances at Mom.

“Then… let the people who do this stuff take care of it.”

Mom’s pacing now—arms folded tight, like she’s trying to hold everything in. I’ve seen that look before, after a long shift, after a bad night at the hospital. The kind where all you want is a problem you can fix.

“So what are we supposed to do?” she says, turning sharply to Claire. “Arin already missed a day of school. And if you don’t know how to reverse this…”

Her voice trails off, but I feel it.

That weight.

That unspoken fear that maybe this isn’t something we can undo.

Claire breathes in slow, her expression softening. “I’m sorry. I truly am. I’ll do what I can—but I’m not a scientist. I patch people up. I help them stay alive. But what happened to Arin? That’s beyond my expertise.”

She glances at me, then back at Mom. “What you really need… is someone who understands this on a genetic, molecular level. Someone who’s dealt with symbiotes more and what they can do.”

Mom frowns. “And where exactly do we find someone like that?”

Claire reaches into her coat, pulls out a sleek phone, and starts typing. “I’m going to see if I can get in touch with a friend. Of a friend.”

“That sounds… vague,” I murmur.

Claire smiles. “And in the meantime, just try and be normal,” she says.

“Normal?”

“Go to work,” she adds, shrugging like it’s no big deal. “Maybe contact the school, see if they can let her—him—come in under a different name. Say you’re a cousin. Or part of some kind of exchange program.”

I blink at her. Hard.

“Alchemax shouldn’t be able to find you unless you start running around with the symbiote out in public,” she adds. “Keep your head down, don’t use powers, and you’re just another teenager.”

“That’s good,” Mom says, like this is all something we can just patch over with duct tape and good intentions.

But me?

I stare at the floor. “There’s no way I’m going to school like this. No way I’m doing that as a girl—whether they know it’s me or not. Besides, I don’t even have clothes that actually fit.”

“We can fix that,” Mom says, immediate and automatic.

I snap my head toward her. “We don’t have the money for that. And that’s not the point.” My voice cracks—frustration twisting every word.

Mom meets my eyes. Steady. “You can’t just stop living. You can’t not go to school.”

I fold my arms tight. “Watch me.”

Claire stands, sliding her phone back into her pocket. “Okay. Look. I think I should go, let you two… work this out.”

She gives me a softer look. “I’ll make some calls. And I’ll get back to you soon.”

I nod stiffly.

And just like that, she heads for the door.

The door clicks shut behind Claire, and the apartment goes quiet.

Mom’s standing near the kitchen now, arms crossed, one hand rubbing her head like she’s bracing for a headache that already started. I’m still planted near the couch, arms folded, eyes locked on nothing.

Neither of us says anything for a beat too long.

The words are there, hanging in the air like storm clouds waiting to break.

She shifts her weight. I glance at her. Then away.

More silence.

And then I sigh, long and sharp, the kind that says more than words ever could.

“This is a mess,” I mutter.

She exhales through her nose. “Yeah.”

Another pause.

She doesn’t say I’m overreacting. She doesn’t tell me to be grateful. She doesn’t even try to fix it, which somehow makes it worse.

I rub the back of my neck, still aching with tension. “You really think I can just walk into school like this? Pretend nothing happened?”

“I think,” she says carefully, “that you can’t let this take everything away from you.”

I want to argue.

I really, really do.

But I don’t.

Not yet.

I sigh again, slumping onto the edge of the couch like the weight of this entire conversation is dragging me down with it.

“Fine. I’ll go to school,” I mutter. “But if anything—anything—goes wrong, if someone looks at me weird, or says something, I’m leaving. Done. No questions.”

Mom doesn’t argue. She nods, folding her arms tighter.

“That’s fair. This is… a lot. But—”

“But what?” I glance up at her.

She smiles gently. “You were right about one thing. You definitely need some clothes that actually fit. And I don’t have anything else remotely your size.”

I roll my eyes. “I’m not that short.”

“No,” she says, moving toward the hallway, “but you’re definitely not the same chest, size either.”

I blink. “Wow. Okay.”

She shrugs, unapologetic. “I’m just saying—we’re not going to make it through the week with one tank top and gym shorts that slide halfway off your hips.”

I bury my face in my hands. “This is so stupid…”

She grins. “You can be mad about it and still want jeans that don’t threaten to fall off mid-step.”

“Ugh.”

“How are you going to pay for a whole new wardrobe anyway?”

Mom turns back toward me with a smirk that should not be that smug for someone discussing financial crisis.

“I’ll take it out of the college fund.”

My head jerks up. “Wait— I have a college fund?!”

She raises an eyebrow, amused. “No. But it was fun watching your face.”

I groan, flopping backward dramatically on the couch. “You cannot do that to a person mid crisis.”

She laughs, walking over and ruffling my hair—like I’m still ten and not… whatever this is now.

“I’ve got it handled,” she says, more serious this time. “I’ll pick up a few more shifts. Cover what we need. It’s not ideal, but neither is half your wardrobe being five inches too long.”

She’s still smirking.

But underneath it, I can see it—the tiredness, the worry, the fierce protectiveness. She’s already doing the math, already planning how to make this work. Because that’s what she does.

And maybe… for now, that’s enough.

Mom watches me for a moment, then her voice softens. “Why don’t you go rest? We’ll head to the store in the morning, get you something that doesn’t look like it came out of a lost and found bin.”

I nod slowly, exhaustion catching up to me again. “You’re not going to work right now, are you?”

She starts to answer—habit, reflex—but I cut in before she can finish.

“Please just stay.”

The words hang there, bare and heavier than I mean them to be. But I don’t take them back.

She looks at me, really looks, and I see something shift in her eyes. Not hesitation—guilt, maybe. But she nods.

“Okay,” she says softly. “I’ll call them. Tell them I can’t make it tonight.”

I exhale, tension loosening just a little.

“Thank you.”

She squeezes my shoulder gently, the kind of touch that says I’ve got you, without needing the words.

And for the first time since this all started—since the alley, since the change, since the dream—I feel just a little bit safer.

Not fixed.

But safe.

After a bit more talking—nothing heavy, just quiet stuff about morning plans and maybe hitting up that consignment place on 5th—I finally peel myself off the couch and head back to my room.

The door clicks shut behind me, muffling the world outside.

I sit down on the bed, running my fingers through my hair—it’s dry now, soft, still unfamiliar in every way. I stare at my reflection in the dark window, not really seeing it.

I lay back in the bed, staring up at the ceiling, the soft hum of the city barely slipping in through the window. My room is dim and quiet—safe, but my thoughts won’t let me rest.

Claire said ‘maybe it’s not bad.’

Not all symbiotes are bad, she said. Like that’s supposed to be comforting.

But after that dream…

After what it did to me in there—it’s hands or whatever just it’s liquid weird body, its voice, its control—and even before that, in the alley, when it first crawled into me, changed me.

No.

It’s no friend.

It made me do things. Feel things I didn’t want to feel. It took my body and moved it—stole it.

And the worst part?

I didn’t stop it.

I couldn’t.

I turn on my side, pressing my face into the pillow, trying to force the thoughts away.

And now I’m supposed to just live like this?

Go to school?

Act like I’m fine when I don’t even know what I am anymore?

I turn away from the ceiling, burying myself deeper into the blankets.

But the weirdest thing?

It’s quiet.

Almost… too quiet.

The symbiote hasn’t said a word since I got home. Not when I talked to Claire. Not when I argued with Mom. Not even when I laid down and started spiraling again.

It’s just been… there. Watching. Waiting.

And somehow, that’s scarier than the talking.

Now I don’t know what it’s thinking. Or feeling. Or if it’s planning something. Or just giving me space.

I close my eyes and press deeper into the pillow.

Maybe it’s hiding.

Or maybe… it’s learning.

Studying me.

Learning when to push.

And when to let me collapse on my own.

The idea sends a chill up my spine.

“I don’t want to sleep,” I murmur to the room, voice barely audible. “I don’t want to see that again.”

I stare at the ceiling again like it might offer a way out. Like I can outlast this. Like if I just don’t fall asleep, I won’t have to feel it again—it, again. Inside my head, my skin, my voice.

It creeps in slow, slipping through the cracks of my defenses like fog under a door. My eyelids grow heavy. My thoughts scatter. The weight of it all finally catches up with me.

And despite the fear, the tension, the anxiety knotted deep in my chest…

I sleep.

And, somehow—

There’s nothing.

No dreams.

No voices.

A quiet so deep, so still, it feels like the first real breath I’ve taken since everything changed.

When I wake up, it feels like any other morning.

Soft light spills through the window, pale and gold. The sheets are twisted around me, warm from sleep. My room smells like detergent and dust. My brain is foggy, quiet. Peaceful, even.

For just a moment—just one—I forget.

It feels like a normal morning.

But then I shift.

I roll slightly, the blanket slipping off one shoulder.

And everything comes rushing back.

The weight on my chest shifting. The way my body leans differently into the mattress.

My breath hitches.

Oh.

Right.

It all floods in at once—the alley, the containment pod, the transformation, it, the dream, Claire, my mom, the fear—

I sit up quickly, heart racing like I’ve just been dropped into someone else’s life again.

Except it’s still mine.

Still me.

I glance toward the mirror. My reflection stares back.

Still her.

“Great,” I mutter under my breath, dragging a hand through my hair. “Round two.”

I reach over to my desk and grab my phone. The screen lights up as soon as I press the button—familiar, comforting. A small piece of my old life that hasn’t been altered, warped, or… rewritten.

The home screen is the same.

Wallpaper too.

Everything feels like it should.

But my hands feel different holding it. Slimmer. Softer. Even my grip doesn’t feel right anymore.

I take a breath and check my notifications.

Just one message.

That’s it?

After everything?

I open it.

[Luca - Yesterday, 10:42 AM]
“You sick or just skipping? I was gonna ask if you wanted to bomb the physics quiz together.”

My chest tightens—not from fear, just… a strange, aching mix of relief and sadness. He doesn’t know. Of course he doesn’t.

He’s just being… normal.

Because for him, nothing has changed.

For him, I’m still me.

And for a second, I wish I could just text back yeah lol skipping and pretend that’s all it was.

But I can’t.

Not anymore.

I stare at the message thread for a second longer, thumbs hovering over the screen.

Then I start typing.

Me:
My mom pulled some weird family exchange stuff and sent me to live with her cousins for some reason. Said it’d be good for me to see another part of the world.

The dots appear almost instantly.

Luca:
Damn, for real? Where?

My stomach twists.

Where? Yeah. Great question.

I stare at the blinking cursor.

“Uhhh…”

I glance toward the hallway, half-expecting Mom to yell something like ‘Say Switzerland!’

It’s already been too long.

I can practically feel the pressure building behind that blinking cursor—like Luca’s on the other end just watching the typing dots come and go, wondering what the hell kind of answer takes this long.

My thumbs freeze.

And then—

Me:
Canada.

I stare at it for a second, thumb hovering over send. It’s… safe, right? Vague enough to work. Not too far. Believable. Kind of.

I hit send.

A beat passes.

Luca:
Yo that’s wild. You sayin you’re Canadian now? You pick up an accent or start apologizing for everything yet lol

I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. My lips even twitch into a half smile.

Me:
Guess I’ll let you know if I start craving maple syrup and universal healthcare.

Luca:
Lmk if classes are easier up north. I might transfer.

I laugh. Quiet. To myself.

For a second, just a second, it feels like nothing’s changed.

But only for a second.

My fingers hover over the keyboard, then I start typing.

Me:
It already feels like forever. I never thought I’d miss school.

I stare at it a moment, then hit send.

It’s not completely untrue.

I do miss it—but not for the classes, or the noise, or even the people. I miss the routine. The normalcy. I miss me, before everything turned inside out.

Before I woke up in someone else’s skin.

Luca replies fast, as always.

Luca:
What are they doing to you up there? Did the cold break your brain? Do I need to call someone to save you?

Me:
lol

I start to smile. He always was the type to make everything a joke. But right now, I’m weirdly grateful for it.

Then the next message hits:

Luca:
You said it’s an exchange, right? So is one of your cousins with your mom now?

I stare at the screen.

Shit.

I didn’t think that far ahead.

“Great,” I mutter to myself. “Time to start building the fake backstory.”

Me:
Yeah.

Luca:
Are they going to our school?

Me:
Yep.

I stare at the screen. He’s fast, annoyingly so. Already typing again before I can catch a breath.

Luca:
That’s all I get? Aren’t you gonna tell me about them? Or are they just the worst or something?

I chew the inside of my cheek. My thumb hesitates over the keyboard.

Then, slow, almost reluctant:

Me:
She’s fine. Probably as smart as me. Don’t know her super well.

I pause.

Stare at she.

That word hits weird. Like it buzzes against my skin in a way I don’t know how to name.
Still, it gives me a way out. A clean one.

No follow-up questions if I don’t know her that well.

Right?

Luca:
Is she hot?

I freeze, staring at the screen like the words might rearrange themselves into something less Luca.

“Gross. What the hell,” I mutter, scrubbing a hand down my face.

Then it hits me again—he doesn’t know.

Of course he doesn’t.

He has no idea he’s asking if I’m hot.

That makes it worse.

I sigh hard, then type.

Me:
Gross, she’s my cousin.

There’s a pause in the thread. Then:

Luca:
Right, right forgot the cover story. Still. You could’ve just said yes and let me wonder.

Me:
No. Never doing that.

Luca:
Fine, fine. I’ll wait till she shows up and judge for myself. Can’t be hotter than you though.

My whole face burns.

He doesn’t mean it that way.

I stare at the screen, heart thudding against my ribs like it knows something I don’t want to admit.

Just leave her alone, I start to type—then backspace it immediately.

No. That’s weird. Why would I say that? If she’s just a cousin, why would I be protective like that? It’d raise questions. Questions I really don’t want to answer.

I groan and drop the phone onto my chest, staring up at the ceiling like it holds the answers.

“I already regret this,” I mutter.

The phone buzzes again.

Luca:
What’s her name anyways?

Of course he wants a name.

I stare at the text like it might burst into flames. I didn’t think that far. I was too busy panicking and spiraling and figuring out how to exist.

Okay. Think.

Name. Name…

My fingers move on their own.

Me:
Her name’s Erin.

I hit send.

Now I really regret this.

Luca:
Haha no way, seriously what’s her name?

I stare at the screen, biting the inside of my cheek.

Okay. Okay.

“Erin” was a terrible idea. Way too close. Might as well have gone with “DefinitelyNotArin.”

I need something normal. Safe. Something that won’t trip me up later or sound like a panicked half-lie if someone else asks.

I think fast—scrolling through every generic, non-suspicious name I can imagine.

Lisa. Emma. Rachel.

“Elisa.”

It just comes to me.

Me:
Elisa.

I send it before I can overthink it. My thumb lifts off the screen like I just lobbed a live grenade into the middle of my life.

Too late now.

Luca:
Dang, fancy. Elisa sounds like she drinks tea and judges people for using paper plates.

I snort despite myself.

Me:
Yeah well, she might. Idk.

Luca:
Tell her to save me a seat at lunch if she’s not too elite.

I pause.

Right. Lunch. School. Being seen.

This cover story might be holding—for now.

But tomorrow?

Tomorrow’s going to be a whole new kind of nightmare.

End of chapter 2