Project Toxin: Chapter 1

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

Update 1 added cover and story description.

New York City, Earth-???.

Rain slicks the streets like a second skin, the glow of neon signs bleeding into puddles at every curb. It’s late somewhere between 1:00 and 2:00 a.m.

I’m Arin Coleman you’re average slightly above average 17 year old, top of my class in physics, but flunking gym of course. Raised by a single parent who works nights at New York General. Known for being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Tonight, I’m in the Lower East Side, walking home from my crappy part time job at a tech repair shop “Circuit Saviors” and—a strange hum, faint but vibrating through the concrete like a pulse.

What is that?

I follow it.

Through a construction zone. Past a building with faded letters only partly readable ALCHEMAX Fut—

And then into a narrow alley blocked by a chain-link fence. There’s something glowing. Flickering. White-blue.

I duck under the fence. The hum only grows louder.

And there it is.

A containment chamber. Cracked. Sparking. With some kind of strange substance dark…webbing? clinging to its glass, but… moving...

My breath clouds in the air as I step closer. The chamber’s about the size of a carry-on suitcase, half-buried in shattered concrete and stray rebar.

My sneakers crunch glass as I move in closer.

The chamber’s busted on one side, jagged edges curled. There’s a warning label half-burned off, but I can still make out the ALCHEMAX logo, and just beneath it, the word “SYMBI—” before the metal’s too scorched to read.

The webbing… it’s not normal. It’s not even webbing. It’s moving, contracting, and glistening like oil in moonlight. And it’s not attached to the chamber anymore.

It’s attached to me.

I don’t know when it reached me. One second I’m staring at it, and the next, I feel a sting, sharp and cold, just below my collarbone. I stumble back, but it’s too late. The thing’s already wrapped around my arms. I try to peel it off, but it slips through my fingers like liquid.

I can hear it. Not with my ears, with something deeper. Like it’s whispering inside my head.

“Arin.”

I fall to one knee, heart pounding in my ears. It surges up over my back, across my face, my vision goes black for a second, then white, then every color at once.

Then—silence.

I’m on my hands and knees, breathing hard. The rain’s stopped. Or maybe I just can’t feel it anymore. My skin feels… wrong.

Pain hits like a lightning strike, fast, full body, and everywhere.

I scream, but the sound comes out ragged and warped, like it’s being pulled apart mid-air. My arms hit the asphalt again, but I don’t feel the impact, I barely feel the ground. It’s like my nervous system’s rebooting, rewriting everything at once.

Muscles shift under my skin. Bones pop and stretch. My chest tightens, then expands. My limbs twist, not breaking, but reshaping. Like every cell in me is being rewritten, restructured, like that thing is undoing me and putting me back together as something new.

I claw at the ground, at myself, but the black tendrils are everywhere now, guiding the transformation like a second skin and a second will.

It hurts.

God, it hurts.

And then…

It stops.

Not slowly. Not gradually. Just sudden.

I’m left panting in the alley. I stagger up, one hand on the wall. The substance slides back, like it’s giving me space to see.

I catch my reflection in the broken glass of the chamber again.

It’s me.

But not the me I’ve always known.

My face is different. Softer. My voice, when I breathe out a trembling “what the hell…” it’s higher. Lighter. My clothes hang differently. My center of gravity’s shifted. My hands are slimmer, my frame smaller.

The girl in the reflection, she moves when I do, every twitch, every breath. She’s staring back at me with wide, panicked eyes. Blonde hair, plastered wet to her face, falling past her shoulders.

She’s…

She’s me.

“No…” I whisper, shaking my head, backing away from the broken chamber like I can back away from what’s inside me.

She copies it—hands trembling, jaw slack, like she doesn’t believe it either. My voice spills from her mouth—softer, unfamiliar, wrong. “No, no, no, no—”

What the hell is this thing?

“What did you do to me?” I shout, looking down at my arms. My voice cracks mid-sentence. Too high.

I stumble back into the alley wall, dragging fingers, her fingers, through my hair, yanking at it like that’ll somehow tear this feeling out of me.

“Is it not what you wanted?”

“No! You changed me!”

“You wanted this.”

“Bullshit! I didn’t ask for this!”

My heart’s slamming so hard it feels like it might burst through my chest. Every cell is buzzing, screaming, confused.

I’m not—this isn’t—

I look at her again. Me. Her.

And she’s… beautiful.

“Shit…” I whisper, falling to my knees again. “Fuck. No, no, no—”

Tears burn at the edges of my eyes. The alley spins. And somewhere inside me, that thing is quiet now… waiting.

“Get off of me!”

I scream it, raw and desperate, reaching for the black mass left across my chest, but the moment my fingers touch it, it pulls away. Not up, not out—in. Like water vanishing into dry ground.

It just retreats, slipping beneath my skin in smooth, liquid waves, like it belongs there.

I claw at my arms, my neck, my stomach—but there’s no trace, nothing to peel away. Just me.

Just skin.

It’s gone.

And yet… I can feel it. Under the surface, like a second heartbeat.

“Arin.”

“Shut up!” I shout, slamming my fist into the alley wall. The concrete cracks.

I stumble back, wide-eyed, staring at the ground.

That wasn’t normal.

None of this is normal.

My breathing’s fast, chest rising and falling under soaked clothes that don’t fit the way they used to.

Except… I don’t feel weak. I don’t feel any pain. I feel—

Stronger.

But scared out of my goddamn mind.

I don’t know what’s happening…

“They’ll be here soon…”

I freeze. My blood runs cold. That voice, its voice, moving through my mind again.

“We need to leave.”

“No. No, you don’t get to—shut up. Stop talking in my head.”

“They’ll try to kill us.”

“Who? Who’s coming?!”

“The ones who had us caged. They’ll burn the city to take us back.”

Goddamnit.

I bolt.

No plan, no direction, just away. Out of the alley, across slick pavement that flashes under streetlights like a river of broken stars. My shoes slap against the asphalt, faster than they should. My lungs should be burning, but I’m not even winded.

The city feels like it’s tilting sideways.

Tears blur my vision, streaking down a face that isn’t mine. I swipe at them, smearing rain across my cheeks, but they won’t stop.

I don’t know where I’m going. I just know I can’t stop.

Not here. Not now.

“Left, now.”

“No!”

“Please.”

That word catches me off-guard.

Not a command.

A plea.

I turn.

My feet skid across wet concrete as I whip around the corner, lungs hitching, heart thudding somewhere in my throat. And just for a second, I look back.

There.

Black SUVs. Four of them, maybe five. All unmarked, rolling deep with high beams off, engines low and smooth like predators. They surge past the cross-street I just left, straight toward the alley.

The SUVs screech to a stop. Doors burst open. Figures pour out, tactical gear, matte armor, helmets with some sort of visors.

Weapons drawn.

They’re searching.

They’re looking for me.

They’re not cops.

They move too fast. Too clean. As if already aware of the situation completely. Alchemax probably. Or something worse.

“Too slow.”

“Shut up,” I hiss, ducking into a stairwell beneath an old laundromat, heart punching holes in my chest. “Shut the hell up—”

I grip the rusted stair railing, shaking, bile creeping up my throat.

They would’ve killed me.

No questions. No hesitation.

“Told you.”

“I told you to shut up.”

“I need to get somewhere safe…” I mumble, my voice catching like it might break.

“…Oh god.” My hands tremble again. “How do I even go home looking like this? Fuck.”

But I don’t have options.

I have a mom who’s gonna wonder why I didn’t text. Who’s gonna check the apartment and roof and see I’m not there. She works nights, yeah, but when she comes home and I’m still missing…?

She’ll call the cops. She’ll look for me.

And if those security soldier bastards find her before I do—no they wouldn’t know who I am right? I didn’t see any cameras, and even if they saw me I’m not a person that really exists, just some random—girl…

No. I shake the thought out of my head. No. I have to get back. Just… get in. Hide. Think.

“Understood.” It says intruding on my thoughts.

“Don’t talk again. Whatever you are, just stay quiet.”

I take a deep breathe. Then tug on the hood of my jacket and slink into the shadows toward the subway.

I can’t let anyone see me.

Not like this.

The trip home’s a blur, graffiti, train lights, too many eyes. I kept my hood low, head down, moved like a shadow and prayed no one looked too close. Somehow, no one did. Or maybe they felt it. That odd feeling I have a hum almost of whatever is under my skin, a warning that something wrong was nearby.

By the time I reach my apartment door, I’m shaking.

The key slips in after the third try. These hands still don’t feel like mine.

The door creaks open.

Dark. Quiet. Mom’s not home yet—she’s on the graveyard shift again. I don’t even bother turning on the lights. I stumble inside, shut the door, and twist the lock until I hear the click.

I make it three steps.

And collapse.

The couch catches me like an old friend I haven’t seen in years. I curl up, not caring that I’m still soaked, that my clothes stick to skin that feels unfamiliar. The living room swims in darkness and streetlight. The hum’s still in my bones, but quieter now. Satisfied. Dormant.

My breathing slows. My heart doesn’t feel like it’s trying to kill me anymore.

Everything hurts now.

I feel… hollowed out. Like the adrenaline, the terror, the power surge, it’s all fading, and what’s left is just this ache. Deep. Cold. Like whatever it did is just now hitting me.

“Sleep.”

“No,” I mutter, barely above a whisper. “I said be quiet…”

Luckily it doesn’t say anything else.

It doesn’t need to.

Sleep comes like a tide. And I go under.

Then in what feels like only a second later, I’m awoken.

“Miss, do your parents know you’re here? Are you—” she gasps, hand flying to her mouth. “Are you Arin’s girlfriend?! Oh, he’s in so much trouble. ARIN!”

I blink, body stiff, couch fabric stuck to my face. I sit up fast, too fast, and the room spins.

And there she is.

My mom.

Scrubs half-zipped, hair pulled back, looking like she just stepped off a double shift, with that exhausted, no-nonsense nurse energy that could shut down a riot in under three seconds.

Except right now, she’s panicking.

“Oh my god, those are Arin’s clothes—did you two—oh my god, Arin!”

She’s already reaching for her phone, fumbling to dial.

“M-Mom, wait—!”

She freezes.

The voice. My voice. It’s not mine, not really, yet…

She looks at me again, really looks. Her eyes scan my face, the hair, and something flickers behind them. Confusion? Fear? Familiarity?

“…Arin?” she whispers, voice cracking.

I swallow.

Everything in me is shaking.

“Y-yeah,” I manage, barely. “It’s… it’s me.”

And I watch her take one slow, stumbling step backward.

My throat tightens before I even get the words out. My vision’s already swimming again.

“Mom…” My voice breaks. “I don’t know what happened. I’m scared.”

She stops.

Phone halfway to her ear. Eyes locked on mine.

Something in my voice—it cuts through the shock. I see it. Her breath catches, her shoulders drop just a little. Her hand lowers.

And then she’s crossing the room.

Fast.

No hesitation now.

She drops to her knees in front of me like she used to when I’d scrape mine on the sidewalk or come home crying from school. She takes my face in her hands—gentle, trembling—and just stares at me. Searching. Studying.

I don’t stop her.

“Arin…” she whispers again, voice full of tears she’s too stunned to cry. “Baby, what… what happened to you?”

And just like that, I break.

The sob hits hard, curling out of me like I’ve been holding it in for years. I collapse forward, into her arms, and she catches me. Doesn’t let go.

I squeeze my eyes shut. “Please don’t let them take me…”

“I’ve got you,” she murmurs, rocking me, not even asking who them is yet. “Whatever this is—we’ll figure it out. I’ve got you, Arin.”

We stay there a while—just the two of us on the living room floor.

Her heartbeat steadies mine.

The tears slow. Not gone, just… quieter.

I breathe in, and her scrub top smells like hospital antiseptic and lavender dryer sheets. I used to hate that smell. Right now, it’s the only thing keeping me from slipping apart again.

Finally, I pull back just a little. My voice is small, hoarse.

“…How did you know it was me?”

She looks at me—really looks—and brushes a wet strand of hair from my face.

“I didn’t,” she admits. “Not right away.”

She swallows.

“But then you looked at me like you always do when you mess up. Like when you shattered my favorite mug in third grade and tried to hide the pieces in the vent.”

“I knew that look. And the way you said ‘Mom.’” Her voice wavers again. “I don’t care what you look like. I know you.”

And suddenly I’m crying again, but softer now. The kind that comes after the panic, when everything’s raw and real.

“You’re still my kid,” she says, eyes shining. “Nothing’s gonna change that.”

She pulls back just enough to see my face again, her hands still gently cradling the sides of my head like she’s afraid I’ll disappear if she lets go.

“What happened, Arin?” she whispers. “How did you… are you a mutant? An Inhuman? Whatever it is, we’ll deal with it. It’ll be okay.”

I shake my head, jaw tight, voice barely holding steady.

“No… I… I found something.”

Her brow furrows. “Something? What do you mean?”

“It was in an alley… a sign… Alchemax,” I say, wiping my eyes with the sleeve of the hoodie that barely fits now. “There was a… container, or a chamber or something. It was cracked open. Glowing. I heard this… this noise. And I—God, I was stupid—I went closer and it just…”

I gesture at myself.

“It got inside me. This… black thing. Alive. It changed me. It’s still in me.”

She goes quiet for a moment, lips parted like she’s trying to form words and nothing’s coming out.

Then finally…

“A symbiote.”

My eyes snap to hers. “What?”

She looks stunned she even said it, like her mouth moved before her brain caught up. Her hands drop slowly to her lap, and she leans back onto her heels, swallowing hard.

“I—I didn’t mean to just say it like that,” she murmurs. “It’s just… I’ve heard that word before. In the news. At the hospital. Whispered, like something no one wanted to admit was real.”

She meets my gaze again, and this time, she’s serious.

“They brought in a red headed man a few years ago. Security all over the place, feds, private suits, the whole floor shut down. They said he’d been infected—that’s what they called it. Symbiotic exposure. His eyes… Alchemax was really interested in it. They took him out in the middle of the night.”

“What happened to him?” I ask, heart sinking like lead.

She doesn’t answer right away.

That is the answer.

“Oh my god…”

“Arin,” she says quickly, reaching for me again, “I don’t care what they say. You’re not him. You’re still you.”

“Wait infected?” The word leaves a sour taste in my mouth. “Like—oh god, is it gonna take control of me? I—I—”

My breathing kicks up, ragged and sharp. My chest feels too tight, like it’s folding in on itself. I claw at my sleeves, heart racing, thoughts spiraling.

Is that what this is? Some kind of slow takeover?

Is it waiting for the right moment to push me out, to hollow me out and wear me?

What if it already is?

“Arin—hey, hey—calm down.” Mom’s hands are on my shoulders again, firm but steady. “Look at me. Look at me. You’re okay.”

“I don’t feel okay,” I choke out.

“I know. I know, baby. But you’re still in there. You’re still you. Whatever this thing is, it didn’t erase you. You’re still fighting.”

I press a hand to my chest. The hum’s back—soft now, but present. Listening.

“We are not taking you.”

My breath hitches.

“We are protecting you.”

“I don’t know how to do this,” I whisper.

Mom nods. “We’ll figure it out. One step at a time.”

My voice breaks, raw and trembling, too full to hold it in anymore.

“I don’t want this.”

Mom’s eyes lock onto mine, soft and afraid.

“I don’t want to be a girl,” I whisper. “I don’t want this thing attached to me. I didn’t ask for this. I didn’t choose this.”

It all crashes out in one breath—anger, fear, grief. My fingers curl into the couch cushion, knuckles white, arms wrapped tight around myself like I can hold me together just by not letting go.

“I was just walking home. Just trying to get home…”

I hear my voice, how different it sounds, how my own words feel like someone else’s skin.

And it’s too much.

“We are sorry.”

The whisper threads through me—not defensive this time. Not demanding.

Just… soft.

“We didn’t know you would be afraid.”

Mom kneels beside me again, her voice shaking. “Arin, I—I don’t understand what this thing did to you, but… I see how much it’s hurting you. And that hurts me.”

I squeeze my eyes shut.

“I don’t even know who I am anymore…”

Her arms wrap around me again. Tighter this time.

“You’re my kid,” she says. “You’re you. And we’ll figure out the rest—together.”

I press my hands to my face, trying to breathe, trying to think. Everything’s spinning. My body. My voice. My life.

“What do I even do?” I whisper. “Are we supposed to call the cops? What if they show up and just… throw me in a lab somewhere? Experiment on me like some kind of freak?”

The silence that follows is too loud.

“They will not protect us.”

I freeze.

“They are not built to understand what we are.”

I don’t answer it. I just stare at the floor, a knot forming in my gut.

“‘We,’ huh?” I mutter. “You keep saying that like I agreed to any of this.”

No reply this time. No

Mom doesn’t say anything either—not yet. She’s thinking, jaw tight, eyes darting like she’s weighing every option, every risk.

Then finally, she speaks.

“No cops. Not yet. Not until we know more.” She brushes a hand over my hair. “You’re right. If the wrong people find out, we lose control of what happens next. And I’m not letting anyone take you.”

I nod slowly as I sink deeper into the couch, legs tucked up, arms crossed over my chest like I can fold into nothing. My thoughts spiral back to that moment in the alley—how I saw it, how I chose to go toward it.

“I wish I was a better student,” I murmur, voice brittle. “The only science I really get is physics. Maybe if I’d paid more attention to chem or bio or—God, anything, I could’ve figured something out. Stopped this. Before it did… this.”

My mom shakes her head, her voice sharp with a sudden heat. “No. No. This isn’t on you.”

She’s up on her feet now, pacing, arms crossed like she’s holding back an explosion. “It’s Alchemax’s fault. They’re the ones who left something that dangerous just lying around like an old trash bag. A container like that? In an alley? That’s not a mistake—that’s criminal.”

She points toward the window like she could hurl the name itself into the street. “How irresponsible can a company be? I thought Roxxon was bad, but this? This is—this is...”

Her voice cracks on that last word. And I see it in her face, then, the fear. Not of me—but for me.

She’s terrified. Furious.

But not at me.

That matters more than I can explain.

I press my hand to my chest, feeling the steady pulse under my skin. Not just mine anymore.

I glance toward the window too.

“…Then we start with Alchemax.”

She turns back to me, fire still behind her eyes, but now it’s wrapped in that ironclad mom tone—the one that means the conversation’s already been decided before it even starts.

“Arin,” she says, kneeling down again and taking my hand. “I don’t want you doing anything. Not yet.”

I open my mouth, ready to argue—because I have to do something—but she tightens her grip, and the words stick in my throat.

“I’ve got some old friends,” she continues, calmer now. “Ones who owe me favors. One who’se seen… weird stuff. I’m going to call them. They might be able to help figure out what this thing is, what it did to you—how we can fix it.”

I look down, jaw clenched.

“I don’t know if it can be fixed…”

Her eyes search mine. “Maybe not. But you’re not doing this alone. And you are not going anywhere near Alchemax, okay? Not until we know more. I won’t risk losing you.”

The room goes quiet again, heavy with everything unsaid.

“We agree with her.”

“…Great,” I mutter, “even the parasite’s on your side.”

She doesn’t laugh, but there’s the ghost of a smile. Just for a second.

Then she stands and pulls out her phone.

She tilts her head at me, giving me that mom look—the one halfway between ‘I love you’ and ‘you smell like the inside of a gym locker.’

“Why don’t you go take a shower?” she says gently.

I blink. Look down at myself. My hoodie’s stained with dirt and rain, sleeves sagging, pants hanging weird on my hips like they’re trying to remember a body that isn’t here anymore. The couch cushion’s soaked where I collapsed.

“I—sorry,” I murmur, already pushing myself up. “I didn’t mean to get the couch—”

“Honey,” she interrupts, smiling softly, “the couch is fine. You, however, are a whole different story.”

I rub my arm, hesitating. My skin’s tingling again—like it’s still settling. Like it’s not done.

“I can’t shower like this,” I say quietly.

“You can’t not,” she replies, firm. “We don’t know how long you’ll be like this, and you need to take care of yourself in the meantime.”

I gulp. My throat’s dry. I can’t even look her in the eyes. “W-weird question, but… you don’t want to, like, give me permission to see a girl like that though, so…”

She’s quiet for a second.

“…It’s your body,” she says. “For now at least. So… if you’re seeing anyone, it’s just you.”

My whole brain just lets out a long, miserable ugh.

“God, that was supposed to work.”

She laughs, gently. “Go on. Towels are clean. I’ll handle the couch.”

I nod, slowly turning toward the hallway. Each step feels heavier than the last.

I bite my lip as I step into the bathroom, shutting the door softly behind me. Everything feels too quiet in here, like the silence has weight.

The light flickers on overhead—just like always—but it feels different this time. Harsh. Exposing.

I breathe in. Out.

My fingers are shaky as I start peeling off my still-damp clothes. The fabric clings, heavier now, sticking to skin that doesn’t feel like mine. I strip them off piece by piece—hoodie, shirt, pants—until I’m left in nothing but the steam beginning to rise from the shower.

And then I look up.

The mirror’s fogged in the corners, but the reflection is crystal clear.

A girl stares back at me.

She’s not the stranger I saw last night in glass and broken metal. She’s me.

Blonde hair falling against her collarbone. Eyes wide, uncertain. Cheekbones I’ve never seen before. Shoulders narrower. Waist curved. Body—

Changed.

I grip the sink so tight it creaks. My breath catches in my chest.

I touch my face. She touches hers.

I don’t recognize myself.

And yet—I do.

“…Shit,” I whisper, barely audible. “What the hell did you do to me…”

I stare at her—me—in the mirror, my breathing shallow.

My hand trembles as I lift it, slow, uncertain, like I’m not even in control of the movement. It hovers there for a second before I let it settle over my chest.

Soft.

Warm.

Real.

I bite my lip, hard, blinking fast.

“I really didn’t think the first time I touched a girl’s boobs…” I whisper, barely getting the words out, “…they’d be mine.”

A laugh tries to claw its way out of my throat, but it dies somewhere between embarrassment and disbelief. I look down, then back up at the mirror, then away again.

This body isn’t a costume.

It’s not a joke.

It’s me, now.

And I have no idea how I’m supposed to feel about that.

I exhale through my nose, chest rising under my own touch, skin prickling from more than just the cold.

I pull my hand back like it’s burned me, grabbing the towel from the rack like a lifeline and stepping into the shower.

Steam hisses as the water hits.

Maybe it can rinse away everything.

But I already know it won’t.

The water hits my skin, and I flinch.

Not because it’s too hot—it’s not. But because it feels… different. Like my whole body is tuned higher, every nerve closer to the surface. I can feel every drop, every rivulet, the weight of steam curling around my shoulders.

My hands move on instinct, muscle memory guiding me, even as I hesitate.

I glance at the bottles lined up on the ledge—some hers, some mine—and for a second I wonder if I should use something new. Something that fits who this body looks like.

But I don’t.

I reach for mine. My old shampoo. Familiar scent, rough bottle from a drop two months ago. Still half full.

I pour it into my hand and rub it through my hair—longer, thicker now—and it lathers fast, too fast, soap running down my back in warm trails that make me shiver.

Everything’s just… more.

More vivid. More there. I close my eyes and lean into the stream, rinsing slowly, trying not to think too hard. But the thoughts crawl in anyway.

This is me.

I’m still me.

Right?

I pour more soap into my hands, trying to stay focused. Just get clean. Rinse. Get out. Simple.

But nothing feels simple anymore.

I move slowly, cautiously, like I’m afraid of my own skin. My fingers glide across unfamiliar curves—hips, thighs, waist—and every touch makes me tense. It’s not bad. It’s not good either. It’s just… weird.

Weird in a way I don’t want to name.

Then, without meaning to, I brush across my chest.

My fingertips graze my nipple.

I suck in a sharp breath, body jolting like I touched a live wire.

“Shit—!”

It’s not painful. It’s just intense. My whole chest tightens, skin prickling, breath catching. I don’t mean to react. I don’t want to. But my body answers for me.

I lean against the wall, palm flat on the tile, heart racing again. “God… this is so messed up.”

The water keeps running, masking the silence, but I can feel it—this ache sitting in my chest, heavy, confusing, unfair.

I didn’t ask for this.

But I can’t ignore it either.

I press my forehead to the tile and close my eyes, breathing slow, fighting back the swirl of heat and shame.

I hesitate.

Hand halfway raised, breath shallow in my throat. I shouldn’t. I don’t want to. But the memory of that feeling lingers—electric, strange, real.

My fingers move back to my chest, slow, uncertain. I press gently.

And a sound escapes me.

Soft. Unintentional.

A moan.

I freeze, hand still, heart slamming in my chest.

That wasn’t supposed to happen.

I bite my lip harder, eyes wide, the water pouring over me like it’s trying to drown the heat crawling up my neck.

“What the hell is happening to me…” I whisper, voice cracking.

It wasn’t just the physical sensation. It was how it felt to feel it—so sharp, so sudden, like my body just answered a question I didn’t even know I was asking.

And it scares the shit out of me.

Because for a moment…

It didn’t feel wrong.

push the thoughts away, hard.

No. Not going there.

I rinse quickly, trying to pretend like I’m just taking a normal shower. Nothing’s changed. I’m just cleaning off the night—mud, rain, terror, trauma. That’s all this is.

But when my hand starts to move lower—past my stomach—I stop.

Everything inside me seizes up.

I stand there, frozen under the stream of water, soap trailing past my hips on its own, and I think—

Yeah. That’s fine. Totally fine. No need to… explore. No need to touch anything.

I take a shaky breath, eyes wide, heart in my throat.

Just remembering the feeling of my chest—how fast it happened, how easy it was to feel something I wasn’t ready for—

Nope. No. I am absolutely not doing that right now.

Let the soap do its job. Let gravity do the rest.

“God,” I whisper, almost laughing—half-mad, half-miserable. “This is so…”

I turn my face into the spray and stay there until the heat stops feeling comforting and starts to sting.

I step out of the shower, skin flushed from too much heat, nerves stretched thin and fraying at the edges.

I grab the towel off the rack and wrap it around my waist, just like always. It’s instinct—routine burned into muscle memory.

The steam clings to me as I step into the hallway, tiptoeing toward my room, dripping on the floor with every step. My thoughts are a swirl of too much—my body, the voice in my head, the mirror. I just want clothes. I just want to be normal again.

And then—

“Arin, you’re not covered!”

My mom’s voice cuts through the haze like a knife.

I stop dead in the hallway.

“What?” I blink, confused. “I’ve got a—”

Then I look down.

The towel’s around my waist, yeah—but it’s doing nothing for my chest.

My face flushes deep red as I whip the towel up around myself like it’s on fire, clutching it just under my arms.

“Oh my god,” I hiss, backing into the wall. “I didn’t—I forgot—I’m not used to—ugh!”

I hear a small laugh from the other room. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to yell,” she says, more gently now. “You just gave me a flashback to when I caught your uncle coming out of the pool shirtless at my twelfth birthday party.”

“Please stop talking,” I mumble, dragging myself toward my room like a ghost wrapped in a towel.

She calls after me, teasing, “Welcome to womanhood, sweetheart.”

I slam the door.

And just lean against it, cheeks burning.

The steam’s already fading, but my embarrassment lingers like it’s been carved into my skin.

“Welcome to womanhood.”

I repeat the words under my breath, dripping with disbelief.

“Seriously? Did she actually say that?”

I groan and drag a hand down my face.

“Ugh. I hate this.”

I push off the door and move toward my dresser, trying to ignore the tightness in my throat. Every step feels weird. Off. The towel clings in all the wrong places now. I’m aware of my body in ways I’ve never been before—and I hate that I’m aware. Hate how it makes me feel like a stranger in my own skin.

I fling open a drawer and stare at the clothes inside—shirts that used to fit, pants that won’t anymore, boxers that suddenly feel like the wrong answer to a question I never asked.

My hand hovers.

I don’t know what I’m supposed to wear.

I don’t know who I’m supposed to be.

I sit on the edge of my bed, still wrapped up, and bury my face in my hands.

The weight on my chest is… a lot.

Both the literal kind—new, awkward, inescapable—and the other kind. The one pressing down on my thoughts, on who I thought I was yesterday.

I shake my head hard, like I can fling it all off.

Screw it. No overthinking.

I grab the first pair of boxers I see, yank them on, even though they hang weird now—looser in the waist, tighter in the hips. Whatever. I pull on some old gym shorts over them. Then a T-shirt—faded black, a little oversized.

It still smells like me.

I hope it feels like me.

But the weight on my chest pulls the fabric up, stretches it in places it never had to before. I tug at the collar. It doesn’t help.

My body’s not shaped for this anymore.

I sit back on the bed, elbows on my knees, hair still damp and sticking to my cheeks. My legs are bare. My shirt’s sticking to me. And even now, even here, I feel exposed.

It’s not comfort. But It’s just the closest I can get.

I glance down.

And immediately regret it.

The shirt—one I’ve worn a hundred times—now clings in all the wrong places. The fabric barely drops below my ribs, riding up like it’s offended by the curves it’s been forced to wrap around. My stomach’s fully exposed. And worst of all…

My nipples.

Clear as day, pressing against the damp fabric, impossible to ignore.

My face burns.

I fold my arms across my chest instinctively, but even that feels weird. Everything feels too much—too soft, too sensitive, too not what I’m used to.

I tug at the end, but it doesn’t help. The shirt isn’t shrinking. I’m just… not the person it was made for anymore.

“Of course,” I mutter, groaning. “Perfect. Just perfect.”

I consider changing again—but into what? I don’t exactly have a secret stash of girl clothes waiting in my closet.

I think about calling for Mom, but that thought sends a fresh wave of embarrassment crashing down on me.

Nope. Not yet.

I sigh and flop back onto the bed, arms spread out like I’m trying to melt into the blanket. The mattress creaks beneath me—familiar, at least. One of the few things that hasn’t changed.

My damp hair fans out beneath me, long strands clinging to my back, still dripping onto the sheets. I try to ignore it. Try to ignore everything—the tug of the shirt over my chest, the chill of water sliding down my spine, the soft, alien curve of my waist as I shift to get comfortable.

But it’s all there.

Every inch of me feels new, unfamiliar, like I’m wearing someone else’s skin.

I close my eyes and breathe.

Just breathe.

Knock, knock.

“Sweetie? Are you dressed?”

Her voice comes through the door, soft, careful—not prying, but definitely concerned. I glance down at myself, still lying there in a clingy, ill-fitting shirt and boxers that ride too high in the wrong places.

“About as dressed as possible,” I mutter under my breath.

Then, louder “Yep.”

There’s a pause—just long enough for me to imagine all the questions she’s holding back—before the knob turns, and the door creaks open.

She peeks in, one hand on the frame. Her eyes sweep the room, then settle on me, sprawled out and trying very hard not to look like I’m still figuring out how to exist.

She walks in with something folded in her arms—soft colors, cotton, something I don’t recognize.

“I… uh, grabbed a couple of things from the back of the closet,” she says, setting the bundle down at the foot of the bed. “Old old clothes of mine. Some of it might fit a little better. Until we can, you know… get you something that’s actually yours.”

I sit up slowly, hair still clinging to my neck, damp shirt sticking to me.

“…Thanks.”

She gives me a small, crooked smile. “You okay?”

I open my mouth.

Then close it.

Then just shrug. “I’m here.”

“I made a few calls,” she says, sitting down at the edge of the bed. “Well, one, so far. Someone I used to know. She’s not a superhero or anything, but she’s… worked with people. People who’ve been changed.”

That makes me look up. My eyes meet hers, cautious. “Changed how?”

She shrugs, fingers twisting gently in her lap. “Accidents. Mutants. Other stuff too. Things like what happened to you. She’s… discreet. Knows how to keep people out of labs and headlines.”

She pauses, watching me carefully. “I didn’t give her your name yet. I just told her I might need help. She’s going to call me back tonight.”

I nod, slowly. “I guess that’s good,” I murmur, glancing at the bundle of clothes she brought. Soft fabric, muted colors—stuff I’d never wear before. Stuff that suddenly doesn’t feel so far off from what I might need now.

Doesn’t mean I’m ready.

But I’m also not ready to keep walking around in a shirt that betrays every movement I make.

I reach for the top of the pile. A tank, maybe. Light and loose.

“Mind if I—?”

“Go ahead,” she says, standing. “I’ll give you a minute.”

And just like that, she’s gone again. I pull the bundle into my lap and stare down at it.

“This is just… too weird,” I whisper to myself, running my fingers over the fabric.

It’s barely been twelve hours. Twelve hours since I walked home in the rain thinking about finishing homework and maybe grabbing ramen before bed. Twelve hours since I found that thing in the alley.

Since it found me.

My head’s still spinning, my skin still feels like it’s not mine, and the world’s gone from confusing to completely upside down.

I glance at the clothes again.

They’re not too girly, at least—plain, soft tank top, maybe a fitted hoodie underneath, and a pair of old pants. Comfortable stuff. Gender-neutral-ish. Nothing lacy. No frills.

Still.

I’m not sure how well they’ll fit.

Not just physically.

Emotionally.

I take a deep breath, then grab the tank top and slip it over my head.

The fabric slides down smooth over my skin. It fits. A little loose across the chest. But… not bad.

I catch my reflection in the darkened window and freeze for a moment.

Still me.

Just… different.

I glance back toward the door, then down at myself again, turning slightly to check the fit. The pants are a bit long, but they hug my hips like they’re meant to.

It fits.

Not perfectly.

But almost.

And almost feels like a miracle right now.

“How’d she even have clothes that—” I pause, frown. “—well, almost fit anyway?”

There’s something about that thought that makes me uncomfortable in a way I can’t quite place.

But I push it aside.

I sit back down on the edge of the bed, arms crossed, hair finally starting to dry in damp waves around my shoulders. I look like someone I don’t know. Someone who might be me, might not.

But at least I’m not naked.

Progress.

“They won’t call till tonight,” I mutter, flopping an arm over my face like that’ll somehow block out the entire situation. “So what am I supposed to do all day?”

I glance toward my backpack, still slouched by the desk like a relic from a past life. My homework’s probably crumpled inside. Useless now.

Because I sure as hell can’t go to school like this.

Not like I could walk in and just go, Hey, it’s me, Arin. I know I look like a completely different person, but trust me—I’m fine. Just got possessed by alien goo and grew boobs overnight.

Yeah.

That’d go real well.

My chest rises and falls slowly under the grey tank. I cross my arms tighter.

“So I just… sit here?” I mutter. “All day? Wait?”

The room answers with silence. Even the symbiote’s gone quiet.

I look over at my laptop.

Then the window.

Then the mirror.

I slide into the chair at my desk, still a little damp. I pull my laptop over, open the screen, and start typing.

Symbiote.

The results flood in instantly.

Horizon Labs.
Daily Bugle headlines.
Alchemax.
Even Stark Industries.

There’s so much.

“Is that a good thing?” I mutter, scrolling.

Some of it’s science—genetic bonding, parasitic organisms, failed experiments. A few deep-dive Reddit posts that spiral into wild conspiracy theories about alien invasions and sleeper hosts.

But most of it is names.

Famous ones.

Spider-Man. Venom.

I’ve heard of them. Who hasn’t?

Venom’s on the news a lot, big, black, terrifying. People didn’t even know if he was a hero or a villain. Sometimes he fought alongside Spider-Man. Sometimes he nearly leveled whole blocks.

And then there’s the others.

Carnage.

The headline makes my blood go cold:
Cletus Kasady: Bonded with “Carnage” Symbiote. Confirmed Serial Killer. Death Toll Unknown.

“Oh god…”

I close the tab too fast, the cursor shaking slightly under my hand.

Is that what I’m carrying around inside me?

Is that what I’m becoming?

I keep clicking.

One article leads to another, then another. A rabbit hole of news clippings, blog posts, forums, and “official” statements that feel anything but official.

Spider-Man and Venom dominate most of the conversation—pages and pages of theories, sightings, rumors. Some say the symbiotes amplify aggression. Others claim they mirror emotions, personalities. A few say they’re sentient. All of them agree on one thing.

They’re dangerous.

And not just because of the powers.

Because they change people.

But when I dig deeper—really dig, past the sensational headlines—I start seeing mentions of other hosts. Test subjects. Accidents.

Still nothing direct from Alchemax. No press releases. No names. Just one article buried on a blog that hasn’t updated in two years:

“ALCHEMAX SHUTS DOWN PROJECT FOLLOWING UNDISCLOSED INCIDENT”

I click faster, eyes scanning.

No details. Just that there was an accident. That several scientists were “let go.” That funding quietly vanished. No comment from Alchemax. No follow-up from the reporter.

I sit back, fingers hovering over the keys.

They buried it.

Whatever it was.

Whatever this is.

I rub my temples, trying to will the anxiety out of my skull.

“But what’s the actual truth?” I whisper to the screen. “Do symbiotes really make people into crazy killers? Is that just what happens when you bond with one?”

I glance back at the old article—Carnage.

“I don’t want to end up like that.”

My stomach twists, but my mind won’t stop racing.

What if this isn’t even a real symbiote? What if it’s just some Frankenstein science project Alchemax was doing? Trying to create their own symbiote? What if this all means nothing, and I’m freaking out over something that’s not actually related.

I sit back, eyes stinging, chest tight.

“I gotta calm down… stop spiraling…”

I let out a long, shaking sigh and close the laptop with a soft click.

Mom’s Mom. She made a call. She has someone—maybe multiple someones—who know what to do. Who’ve seen stuff like this before. Or close enough.

When did she meet people like that, anyway?

She’s a nurse. Not exactly the government-secret-ops or mutant-outreach type.

Unless she is, and I just never knew.

Maybe I should ask.

Or maybe I should just… sleep.

“Yeah,” I mumble, dragging myself back toward the bed. “Sleep. Just till she gets the call…”

I lay down on top of the blanket, still in her clothes.

My eyes drift closed.

And for the first time since it happened… I stop fighting sleep.

One second I’m drifting off in bed—worn out, confused, drowning in thoughts—and the next…

Sunlight.

Warm, golden. The smell of chlorine hanging thick in the air. I blink against it, squinting—and then I see it.

A pool.

Crystal clear water, shimmering like it’s been pulled from a postcard. And me—lounging beside it in a reclining chair. A book open in my hands, something light, something summery. And I’m wearing—

“What the hell—”

I sit up fast, heart hammering.

A bikini.

Soft blue. Tight. Hugging every inch of my body like it’s always belonged there. My skin is warm. Smooth. My hair’s dry and brushed, falling in perfect golden waves down my shoulders like I actually know how to style it.

This isn’t real.

It can’t be real.

I look around, panic rising. Everything’s too perfect. The light too even. The world too still.

And then—

Footsteps.

A man—tall, muscular, chiseled like a Greek statue that’s been going to the gym six days a week—walks toward me from the far side of the pool. Confident. Smiling.

I don’t recognize him.

But then he speaks.

“You’re as beautiful as ever, sweetheart.”

His voice.

I freeze, breath caught in my throat.

He kneels down beside me, hand reaching out, fingers brushing gently along my cheek.

My skin prickles.

“What the hell—” I whisper, pulling back.

He smiles, but there’s something… strange in it. Too calm.

And then he leans in.

His hand moves around my back, and before I can react, he pulls me into a long, deep kiss.

I gasp—startled, confused, frozen as his lips meet mine. It’s soft. Almost tender. Familiar in a way that makes my entire body tense with conflict.

But nothing about this is right.

“How is this happening? Who are you?!” I yell, finally yanking myself away from him, scrambling back in the chair, heart in my throat.

His brow furrows like I’ve just hurt his feelings. “I don’t understand… are you feeling okay, babe?”

“No!” I snap. “Don’t call me that.”

I stand, or try to—but my legs wobble, and it feels like gravity’s holding me down. Not physics. Not the dream. Something else.

He frowns—and suddenly, I can hear it.

Hear him.

His voice.

But not just from his mouth.

Inside my head.

“You’ll accept this soon enough, you need to for us to survive,” the voice echoes, smooth and confident.

Half a second later, the same words spill from his lips—in sync, but just off enough to make my skin crawl.

“No,” I whisper, trying to back away, but my body—

My body doesn’t listen.

I feel it fall down from the upright position of moved into.

“Stop,” I whisper. “Stop it—this isn’t what I want.”

But the voice is already there again, soft and coaxing, wrapping around my thoughts like silk.

“Isn’t it?”

I feel his hands on me—slow, careful, like he’s memorizing the shape of me.

I open my mouth to protest, to scream, to push him away—

But then he says it.

“We are one,” he says, his voice smooth as silk.

And in the exact same moment—I hear my voice say it, too.

Not out loud.

Inside.

The words ripple through me.

It’s just a dream, I tell myself. It doesn’t mean anything. It’s not happening.

I feel it—something—move through me. Like smoke, like heat, like silk drawn beneath the skin. It’s not sudden or sharp. It’s slow. Deep. Invasive in a way that should make me recoil, scream, fight—

But I don’t.

I can’t.

And the worst part is… I don’t even want to.

There’s a warmth that spreads through me as I feel him—it, unfamiliar and all-consuming. I want to hate it. I try to hate it. To fight the shiver in my spine, the weightless ache blooming low in my belly, the breath that catches just a little too softly.

But it’s already inside me.

Already part of me.

“We were meant to be one,” the voice murmurs, a harmony of his and mine, layered and echoing in the hollows of my chest.

I feel the symbiote wrap around my body fully even my face. Wrapped in darkness until suddenly I can see again.

The world blurs. Light warps. The chair, the water, even the sky above—all bending to something deeper than just a dream.

I don’t know where I end and it begins.

It’s different than I expected.

Better.

That thought alone sends a ripple of panic through my chest—but it’s faint, distant, like I’m underwater and the fear can’t quite reach me anymore.

I never expected this—any of this.

Never expected to be on this end… of anything.

Not the body. Not the sensations.

I shift slightly in the chair, the sensation of my own skin electric, hypersensitive, alive in a way I’ve never felt before—not like this. Not like her.

I should hate it.

I want to hate it.

But I don’t.

And that terrifies me more than anything else.

My breath catches.

This—this feeling, this body, this oneness—it’s warm, addictive, terrifying. I can’t tell if I’m melting into it or if it’s melting into me. My fingers twitch, my skin hums, and every nerve lights up with a strange, unfamiliar pleasure I was never supposed to feel.

Never thought I would.

Touched like this. Feeling like this.

And yet—

It’s better than I ever could’ve imagined.

But that’s the problem, isn’t it?

“Is this me?” I whisper, though no sound leaves my mouth.

“Or is it you?”

“We are not separate.”

The words crawl through my mind, soft and velvet-smooth, like they’ve always belonged there. My lips echo them a moment later, not my own voice anymore, not entirely.

It’s no longer just the feelings from before it’s different now.

I feel strength so much, strength and power and I feel… like I’m whole for the first time.

“We don’t need to be separate.”

I echo its words.

“Arin?!”

My eyes snap open.

Reality crashes down like cold water on sunburnt skin.

I jolt upright in bed, gasping, drenched in sweat. My sheets are twisted, stuck to me. My heart hammers against my ribs like it’s trying to escape. My body aches.

“Arin?” Mom’s voice again, muffled through the door. “You okay?”

I blink into the half-light of my room, chest rising and falling.

“I’m fine! I’m—coming!” I shout back, voice cracking just a little too high, just a little too unsteady.

I run a hand through my hair, still damp with sweat, and sigh hard, the weight of everything pressing against my chest like a second heartbeat.

“Or I was,” I mutter under my breath. “What the hell was that?”

The memory lingers, like the dream hasn’t really ended. Like some part of it is still there beneath my skin, curling at the edge of my thoughts like a whisper I can’t un-hear.

The feeling.

The voice.

The want.

I press my palms to my eyes, trying to rub it all away, but it’s still there. That warmth. That strength. That terrifying, intoxicating sense of rightness.

Was that all the symbiote? Was it just a weird dream?

The worst part is… I don’t know.

And maybe worse—I’m afraid of how much I liked it, how good it all felt.

Whatever that was… it’s not over.

End of chapter 1.

Authors note
So I thought of this story while creating the previous one and you may notice some similarities to a certain character from that story as well.

The goal of this story for me was to do something different from the last story.
A fanfiction instead of fully fiction.
A teen instead of an adult main character.
A character with existing relationships this time and having to deal with that.
And more I wont spoil but I do want to say I am actively working on the sequel to Eidolon Nexus 1 and will be posting it soon.

I’m also cross posting the stories now so more people see them and I also now have a Patreon for early access to chapters and other stuff. https://www.patreon.com/LightBringerStories?utm_campaign=cre...