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...

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

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

Chapter 3 Just the essentials.

The morning light feels like it’s mocking me.

It bleeds through the curtains, bright and gold and unrelenting—like the world doesn’t care what happened to me, what changed, what broke. Like it expects me to get up and deal with it.

I groan and shove my face deeper into the pillow, half hoping I’ll just sink into the mattress and vanish.

“I don’t want to be awake…”

My voice is muffled, small.

I don’t want to get dressed.

I don’t want to go shopping.

I don’t want to pick out girl clothes, try on bras, fake-smile while my mom says something like ‘you look so cute!’

I just want to go back to sleep.

I just want to wake up and be me again.

Not this body.

The weight on my chest rises and falls with every breath—unavoidable. Real. Still there. Just like yesterday.

Just like the thing inside me.

Still silent.

Still watching.

I sigh into the sheets, quietly defeated.

There’s no undo button.

No way out.

Just forward.

Even if I have no idea who I’m stepping forward as.

I stay there a moment longer, face buried in the pillow, then roll onto my back, eyes fixed on the ceiling.

My voice comes out rough, dry from sleep and frustration.

“Alright. I know you can hear me.”

Nothing stirs. No words. No ripple of presence.

But it’s there.

I feel it.

“You’ve been quiet. Too quiet. And I think I deserve some answers.”

Still silence.

I keep going, voice growing sharper.

“Why me? Of all people, why did you latch onto me? Was it random? Was I just… there? Were you looking for something? Someone?”

No answer.

“Why did you change me?” My voice cracks. “Why this body? Why that dream? You controlled me. You moved me like I was just a puppet in my own skin.”

My chest tightens, rage and confusion twisting up together.

“I didn’t ask for this. I didn’t choose this.”

Then, soft.

“Just tell me what you want.”

The silence holds for a second longer.

Then the hum shifts—low and deep, like it’s rising from within, wrapping around my spine, my breath, my voice.

“We did not mean to harm you.”

“You were… compatible.”

I swallow hard, my hands curling into the sheets.

“Compatible for what?”

A pause.

Then:

“To survive.”

“To bond.”

The words settle in my chest, heavy and cold.

“To escape.”

“To be free.”

I sit up, fists clenched in the blanket, heart pounding.

I grit my teeth.

“I don’t know what they did to you in there,” I say, voice shaking. “And maybe it was bad. Maybe it was horrible.”

I draw in a ragged breath, throat tight.

“But that doesn’t give you the right to do this.”

The words burn on the way out.

“Not by a long shot.”

There’s no immediate response—just that hum again, low and sad, almost like it’s curling up on itself.

I wrap my arms around my knees, pulling them up to my chest.

I’m not sure if I’m trying to protect myself from it.

Or from the part of me that almost—almost—feels sorry for it.

The voice returns—gentler this time, threaded with something that almost sounds like regret.

“I apologize for not giving you a choice.”

I tense, jaw tightening.

“There was no time. They would have destroyed us. We cannot communicate without a host.”

It was running away.

And I was just the one who got in the way.

I exhale slowly, eyes stinging—not from tears, not yet. But from the weight of it all.

“I didn’t have a choice either,” I say, barely above a whisper. “You didn’t ask. You just… took me.”

I pinch the bridge of my nose, squeezing my eyes shut so tightly it hurts.

“I can’t believe I’m feeling sorry for this thing…”

The hum stirs—sharper now. Not angry. Just… insistent.

“We are not a thing.”

I let out a long, frustrated sigh and drop my hand into my lap. My fingers curl into the blanket without me thinking.

“Fine,” I mutter, exhausted. “Fine. You’re not a thing.”

I sit there for a long moment, breathing slow, trying to sort through the chaos in my head. Trying to find something solid to stand on.

“Okay…” I finally say, my voice low, almost resigned. “I get it. You used me to escape. I was just… there.”

“But why did you change me?” My voice cuts sharper now, slicing through the fragile quiet. “Why this body?”

The silence stretches long enough that my stomach twists.

Then—

“We adapted to you.”

Another pause. A heavier one.

“Your form choice… was not intentional.”

I sit there, staring at nothing, the words rattling around in my head.

Not intentional.

It doesn’t make sense.

None of this does.

I press my palm against my forehead, trying to push the headache out before it really starts.

“That doesn’t make sense,” I mutter aloud.

“Either it was what you wanted… or something from our previous host.”

I bite the inside of my cheek, fighting the sting behind my eyes.

“It definitely wasn’t what I wanted,” I snap.

The presence seems to pull back slightly, not hurt, just… cautious.

I squeeze my hands into fists.

“What do you mean by previous host?” I ask, voice sharper than before. “Did they—?”

“Yes.”

The word is simple. Heavy. Final.

“In the lab.”

I stare at the far wall, blood rushing in my ears.

Whatever they did to this thing—to us…

I shudder.

“So what,” I whisper, “I’m just… leftovers from someone else?”

It doesn’t answer.

My chest feels tight, tighter than before, like every breath is dragging broken glass through my lungs.

I grit my teeth and push forward anyway.

“What did they do?” I demand. “What were they trying to do? What was the goal?”

The hum shivers inside me—a ripple of something painful, almost like fear.

“We don’t want to talk about it anymore.”

I blink, stunned.

“What?” I say, sitting up straighter, anger flashing through the fog. “You’re just gonna ignore me?”

No response.

Just a low, dull presence curling inward—retreating into itself.

Like a door slammed shut in my face.

“You don’t get to shut me out!” I snap, standing up now, pacing without thinking. “You did this to me! You owe me answers!”

Still nothing.

The hum stays there, heavy and closed-off, refusing to budge.

I run a hand through my hair, heart pounding in frustration and helplessness.

“Fine,” I hiss under my breath. “Be that way.”

I stare at the door, jaw clenched.

“Okay, fine,” I mutter, fists clenched at my sides. “You don’t want to talk about them anymore, whatever. But can you at least—at least—change me back?”

For a second, it’s quiet. Like it’s thinking.

“No.”

I blink.

“…No?” I repeat, voice cracking.

“No.”

I feel the words sink into my chest like a blade.

“What do you mean no?” My voice rises, desperate and shaking. “You’re in my body—you changed it—me! You’re telling me you can’t just… fix it?!”

The hum inside me shifts, slow and solemn.

“We cannot change you. The bond has already become permanent. Further alterations are impossible.”

I stumble back a step, like the air’s been punched out of me.

Permanent.

The word echoes, sharp and brutal.

“You mean we can’t separate?! I’m stuck like this?!” My heart’s hammering so hard I can barely breathe.

The answer comes, slow and cold.

“Unless one of us dies.”

“Which is unlikely to not kill us both.”

I stagger back onto the bed, my knees giving out, the weight of it crashing down all at once.

Permanent.

No going back.

No fixing this.

This is me now.

Whether I want it or not.

My hands are shaking.

I clench them into fists, digging my nails into my palms, just to feel something real.

I can’t trust it.

Not yet.

Maybe not ever.

It could be lying. I don’t know anything about it. Nothing except the pieces it lets slip. Nothing except the dream—the control—the change.

“You can trust me,” it says, voice slipping into my thoughts like a whisper under my skin.

I grit my teeth, squeezing my eyes shut.

“I’m trying to think,” I hiss under my breath. “Please. Leave me alone.”

As it does the more the silence grows, the darker my thoughts get.

What if I really am stuck like this?

Not just a girl.

Not just Elisa at school.

But stuck with it.

With the symbiote.

What if it decides to take over? What if it gets angry? What if I can’t stop it when it wants something?

What if it makes me hurt people?

I pull my knees up to my chest again, curling into myself on the bed like I can hide from my own body.

“My life sucks,” I whisper into the empty room.

Knock knock.

I flinch at the sound, my whole body tensing like I’ve been caught doing something wrong. I scrub a hand over my face, trying to erase the red in my eyes, the way my chest still feels too tight.

“Arin?” Mom’s voice filters through the door—soft, careful. “You up?”

I sit there for a second, frozen, trying to figure out if I can even pretend to be okay.

My voice comes out rough when I finally answer. “Yeah.”

Another small pause. She’s probably listening, trying to hear if I really meant it.

“We should get going soon,” she says. “Before the stores get crowded.”

I look down at myself—at this body that doesn’t feel like mine—and swallow the lump in my throat.

“Okay,” I say quietly.

I hear her footsteps retreat down the hall.

I drag myself up off the bed, wiping at my face one last time, shoving everything—panic, fear, anger—down. Burying it.

As soon as I step out of my room, pulling a hoodie tight around myself, Mom’s already waiting in the hall, keys in hand and her serious but trying to be supportive voice ready.

“Later we need to stop by the school,” she says. “Fill out some paperwork, make your new… situation official. You should be able to go in tomorrow.”

I blink at her, deadpan.

“Yippee,” I mutter, dripping sarcasm.

She gives me a soft, understanding look—the kind that almost makes me feel bad for being snarky. Almost.

“I know, honey,” she says. “But it’s gonna be okay.”

I nod stiffly, not really believing it, but I don’t have the energy to argue. “Yeah.”

She adjusts her bag on her shoulder and starts leading us toward the door. “You’ll need to think of a name too,” she adds lightly. “If you need help, I might have a few ideas.”

My stomach twists a little.

“Well, I uh—” I start, words stumbling out half-formed. I can’t exactly tell her I’ve already half-committed to Elisa after a panicked late-night text lie.

I trail off, biting my lip.

I scratch the back of my neck, avoiding her eyes as we head for the door.

“I, uh… I kinda already did,” I mumble. “Not on purpose or anything, but Luca was texting me last night and…”

I trail off, grimacing like the words taste bad in my mouth.

“I was trying to cover for myself and well… I panicked.”

Mom stops, halfway pulling on her jacket, and raises an eyebrow at me.

“And?”

“And,” I mutter, staring very hard at the floor, “I said my cousins name was Elisa.”

There’s a long beat of silence.

Then—mercifully—she laughs. A small, real laugh. Not mocking, not disappointed. Just… tired and fond.

“Elisa,” she repeats, like she’s trying it out. “Could’ve been worse. You could’ve said something like, I don’t know, Bubbles.”

I finally crack the smallest, most reluctant smile. “Yeah, I’m sure that would’ve gone great at school.”

She nudges my shoulder lightly. “Well, Elisa it is, then.”

I nod slowly, feeling a weird twist in my stomach at hearing it said out loud. Elisa. Like it’s been stitched onto me without warning.

Permanent.

Another thing I didn’t ask for.

Elisa.

Me.

God.

“This is going to be a long day,” I mutter under my breath, dragging my feet as I follow her out.

The hallway feels colder than usual. Or maybe it’s just me—aware of every step, every shift of fabric against my frame, every breath of air against skin that still doesn’t feel like mine.

I tuck my hands deep into my hoodie pocket, head down, hoping no one’s around to get a good look at me. Not yet. Not until I figure out how the hell to be like this.

Mom glances back at me, offering a small, encouraging smile.

“We’ll just find a few things to start,” she says, trying to make it sound manageable. “Stuff that fits, that’s comfortable. No pressure.”

I grunt in vague agreement, shuffling toward the stairwell.

Yeah.

No pressure.

Just pretending to be someone I’m not while trying not to completely fall apart in the clearance section of a department store.

No big deal.

The ride over is… weirdly quiet.

The radio is on low—some soft, easy-listening station playing songs I barely recognize—but mom doesn’t say much. She keeps glancing over at me, though, like she’s waiting for me to shatter or explode or just start crying again.

I don’t.

I just stare out the window, watching the city roll by in slow, muted colors. Everything looks the same. Trash on the sidewalk. Taxis honking like they’re allergic to red lights. People bustling by with coffee and umbrellas tucked under their arms.

Normal.

Outside looks normal.

It’s just me that’s wrong.

Mom finally breaks the silence about halfway there.

“You’re doing better than I thought,” she says, keeping her voice light, like she’s afraid if she says it too loud it’ll stop being true.

I shrug, not trusting my voice really.

“I mean it,” she continues. “You’re… dealing.”

Am I?

Because inside, it feels like I’m barely holding the pieces together with duct tape and spite.

I nod anyway. “Thanks.”

We reach the strip mall and come to a stop.

A big, generic department store looms ahead—huge glass windows, discount signs, mannequins in spring clothes even though it’s still freezing out.

“Alright, Elisa,” she says, the name coming easier to her already. “Let’s find you some clothes.”

I unbuckle my seatbelt with the enthusiasm of someone about to get a root canal.

“This is gonna suck,” I mutter.

Mom just smiles sympathetically before paying and stepping out into the cold morning air.

I sit there a second longer, breathing in and out, trying to armor myself up before I follow her.

Mom holds the door open, letting me step into the store first. Warm air blasts over me from the ceiling vents, and the smell of clothes and cheap perfume hits instantly. It’s weird how normal everything feels when nothing inside me does.

She grabs a cart—already way more optimistic than I feel—and nudges it toward the clothing section.

“Let’s start with just some basics,” she says gently. “Enough for a couple weeks. A few pairs of jeans, tops, underthings… you know, enough to get by.”

I shove my hands deeper into my hoodie pocket, walking stiffly beside her.

“I don’t know if that’s enough,” I murmur without thinking.

She stops, glancing at me. “What do you mean?”

I pick at the edge of my sleeve, swallowing hard.

“I don’t know if it’s telling the truth,” I say, voice low, barely above the soft hum of pop music playing from the ceiling speakers. “That thing. The symbiote.”

Her face tightens slightly—not fear, just caution. Listening.

I stare at the endless racks of clothes, colors blurring together.

“It said the bond is permanent. That it can’t change me back. That this is just… me now.”

She doesn’t say anything right away. Just lets it hang there.

I keep my voice steady, even though it feels like it’s shaking inside. “But if it’s lying—if it’s wrong—and there’s a chance, any chance, I could go back someday… then what’s the point of buying all this?”

I clench my fists tighter in the hoodie pocket.

“What’s the point of pretending this is my life now?”

Mom steps closer and rests a hand lightly on my shoulder. Not pulling, not forcing. Just there.

“Because it is your life, Arin,” she says softly. “Even if it’s just for now. Even if it changes tomorrow.”

Her hand squeezes gently.

“We take it one day at a time. We build something you can live in.”

I look down at the scuffed floor.

One day at a time.

I’m not sure if that’s a promise.

Or just survival.

I nod stiffly, not trusting myself to say anything right now, and follow her deeper into the clothing aisles.

The bright fluorescent lights overhead make everything look too clean, too sharp—like there’s no room for hiding anymore. Just endless racks of denim, rows of brightly colored tops, and shelves crammed with shoes way too small and delicate compared to the old loose sneakers on my feet.

Mom steers the cart toward the basics section—plain jeans, simple shirts, hoodies, stuff that doesn’t scream new wardrobe for your sudden unwanted girlhood to anyone paying attention.

She stops at a rack of jeans first and starts flipping through them like this is just a normal Sunday.

“Let’s start simple,” she says, like she’s narrating for herself as much as for me. “Two or three pairs of jeans, some tees, a hoodie, and…”

Her voice trails off a little when she looks at the section labeled Bras & Intimates farther down the aisle.

I pretend not to notice.

Or maybe I’m the one pretending.

I shove my hands deeper into the hoodie’s kangaroo pocket, feeling my face burn.

“So,” she says carefully, flipping through a few hangers, “do you wanna pick stuff yourself? Or should I just grab a few options and you can try them on?”

I hesitate.

I don’t want to pick.

I don’t want to choose things for this body like it’s normal. Like I’m fine.

But I also don’t want her holding up outfits and saying, ‘This would look so cute on you!’ like this is some kind of makeover montage.

I swallow hard and mumble, “I’ll… look.”

Mom nods, stepping back a little, giving me space.

I approach the jeans like they might bite me if I move too fast.

Sizes. Cuts. Bootcut, skinny, boyfriend, jeggings—

It’s overwhelming.

I grab a plain pair. Dark wash. Straight leg. Not too flashy.

Safe.

Same with a few T-shirts—solid colors, no logos, soft fabric.

Basic.

Simple.

Uncomplicated.

Mom smiles quietly when I dump them into the cart without looking at her.

“Good start,” she says.

I nod, trying not to think about the fact that this is my life now.

We roll through a few more racks in silence—me tossing a couple more shirts and another pair of jeans into the cart, Mom keeping a respectful distance, like she knows if she hovers I’ll bolt.

For a second, it’s almost bearable. Just clothes. Just fabric.

Just pretending.

But then, like she’s been trying to time it perfectly, Mom glances over at a different section. Slower. More careful.

Her voice is way too casual when she says, “You’re… gonna need some other things, too.”

I freeze, fingers tightening on the cart handle.

Here it comes.

“Things like…” she gestures vaguely toward the back wall, where bras and underwear are hung up in neat little rows, taunting me.

I stare at them like they might bite.

My chest feels tight again, like the air’s been sucked right out of the store.

“I can, uh—” she fumbles a little, clearly trying not to make it worse, “I can help, if you want. Grab a few basics. Something comfortable. You don’t have to go crazy.”

I just stand there, feeling my face burn, wishing I could turn invisible.

“Nothing fancy,” she adds quickly. “Just… stuff that’ll make you comfortable.”

Comfortable.

Like any of this could be comfortable.

I want to tell her no.

I want to say I don’t need it.

But the way the shirt clings to my chest now, the way every breath reminds me that things move differently, feel different—

I know she’s right.

I shove my hands deeper into my hoodie pocket, staring hard at the floor.

“…Fine,” I mutter.

She smiles gently. No teasing. No ‘this is so exciting!’ crap. Just a small, understanding nod.

“I’ll be quick,” she says.

I nod again, tighter.

God.

This day’s only getting longer.

Mom wheels the cart a little closer to the quieter part of the section, where there’s less foot traffic and less chance of anyone overhearing the conversation that’s already making my skin crawl.

She glances back at me, giving that careful, I’m-not-trying-to-make-this-worse look again.

“We’re, um…” she clears her throat lightly, awkward even for her, “we’re gonna need to take some measurements.”

My stomach drops straight through the floor.

I tighten my arms around myself instinctively, burying my hands deeper into the sleeves.

Measurements.

Which means acknowledging it.

Every inch that isn’t supposed to be there.

Every curve and dip I’ve been trying to ignore.

I don’t say anything. Just give a tight nod, not trusting my voice.

Mom is quick about it—she’s done this before, probably a hundred times in her job, and she switches into that no-nonsense professional mode she uses when patching up stubborn patients who don’t want to admit they’re bleeding.

She pulls a soft tape measure from her purse—seriously, why does she have everything—and holds it up like it’s just another tool.

“I’ll be fast,” she promises.

I nod again, jaw tight.

I stand there, arms half-raised, feeling everything wrong with this picture as she moves the tape around my bust, my ribs, my hips, murmuring numbers softly under her breath.

I squeeze my eyes shut.

It’s mechanical.

Clinical.

But it still feels like peeling a bandage off skin that’s not mine.

When she finishes, she jots the numbers down in the notes app on her phone and gives me a soft smile. Not pitying. Just… solid. Like she knows how heavy it all is, and she’s willing to carry some of it for me.

“Okay,” she says gently. “Now we can grab what we need and get out of here.”

I exhale shakily, nodding.

One step at a time.

One miserable, necessary step at a time.

We don’t say much after that.

Mom quietly grabs a few simple bras and some basic underwear—no frills, no lace, nothing that screams hey, you’re a girl now! Just… functional. Neutral colors. Safe.

I trail behind her like a ghost, numb.

Before I know it, we’re standing outside the fitting rooms. A bored teenage employee in a red vest waves us toward an open section without even looking up from her phone.

Mom hands me a handful of clothes from the cart.

“Take your time,” she says softly, giving me a tiny squeeze on the arm. “Just see what fits.”

I nod stiffly, feeling the weight of the hangers pressing down on me like a second gravity.

I step into the little cubicle and close the door behind me with a soft click.

The fluorescent lights above buzz faintly. The mirror in front of me is way too big, way too clear.

I stare at my reflection for a long second.

Baggy hoodie. Old gym shorts. Hair a little messy. Face… softer than it used to be. Rounder around the jawline. Lips fuller. Shoulders narrower.

I feel like I’m staring at someone else wearing my clothes.

And now… I’m supposed to dress her, too.

I peel the hoodie off slowly, feeling exposed even though I’m still wearing the oversized T-shirt underneath. I kick off the shorts and stand there awkwardly, clutching the stack of new clothes.

The jeans are first.

Getting them on is a struggle—tighter than I’m used to, cut to fit this body. But once they’re up, they hug my hips in a way that feels… foreign. Not bad, exactly. Just not mine.

I pull on one of the plain T-shirts next.

It fits.

Not loose and boxy like I’m used to.

Fitted. Showing off the curve of my waist. My chest.

I stare at myself, feeling my throat tighten.

This is what everyone else is going to see.

Not Arin.

Elisa.

I sit down hard on the little bench in the fitting room, dropping my head into my hands.

How the hell am I supposed to do this?

I stare down at one of the bras lying across my lap, feeling utterly defeated.

It’s so small in my hands—light, delicate, almost mocking in its normalcy.

I sigh, deep and miserable. “How do I do this?”

I turn it over slowly, like it’s a puzzle I’m supposed to solve without the box.

Hooks in the back.

Straps that feel like they’ll tangle if I even look at them wrong.

Cups shaped for a body that still doesn’t feel like mine.

I bite the inside of my cheek, frustrated. Half of me wants to throw it across the fitting room and stomp out barefoot. The other half knows I can’t. Knows that I have to figure this out if I’m going to survive even one day at school without someone noticing something’s wrong.

I lift it higher, clumsily slip my arms through the straps like it’s some kind of weird backpack—and immediately realize that’s wrong. The band gets stuck around my chest, the cups are in the wrong place, and I almost get tangled trying to twist it behind me.

“God, this is stupid,” I mutter, fighting with the fabric.

I stop, breathing hard, glaring at myself in the mirror.

“This isn’t me,” I whisper.

But the reflection just stares back.

Knock knock.

Mom’s voice floats through the door, soft, careful. “Do you need some help?”

I jerk back from the mirror like she just caught me doing something illegal.

“No!” I bark a little too loud, too fast. I wince immediately at how desperate it sounds.

There’s a small pause outside the door.
“Okay,” she says gently. No pushing. No judgment. Just giving me space.

I blow out a long breath, cheeks burning, and look back down at the stupid bra twisted halfway around me. Gritting my teeth, I fumble with the band, sliding it around properly, reaching behind awkwardly for the hooks.

After a few miserable tries—finally—click.

It fits.

Weird.

Snug.

Not uncomfortable exactly, just… different. Noticeable. Like a light pressure around my chest that wasn’t there before.

I grab the T-shirt I was trying on earlier and yank it down over my head, smoothing it over the bra.

The fabric settles differently now.

Everything feels more real, more… permanent.

I glance up at the mirror hesitantly.

And there she is again.

The girl with long blonde hair.

Soft eyes.

Slim waist.

A faint, unintentional curve to her silhouette now that the clothes actually fit.

Me.

Elisa.

I grip the sides of the bench, breathing slow and shallow.

This is what everyone else is going to see tomorrow.

This is who I have to be.

And no matter how much I hate it, deny it, scream about it—

There’s no going back now.

I pull the T-shirt straight, smoothing it over my stomach, and grab the hoodie again, yanking it on like armor.

I open the fitting room door a crack, poking my head out.

Mom’s waiting just a few steps away, pretending to scroll on her phone but looking up the second she hears me.

“Ok,” I say, voice low and rough, “it all fits. Let’s just get out of here.”

Her mouth twitches like she’s fighting a smile. Not at me—never at me. Just at how obviously done I am with this whole nightmare.

But instead of moving toward the registers, she lifts the cart handle and says, way too lightly, “We still need a few more things.”

I groan, slumping against the doorframe.

“You’re killing me.”

She chuckles under her breath. “Basics, honey. You’ll thank me later.”

I drag my feet behind her as we roll back into the aisles.

More underwear. Socks. Shoes. Maybe a second hoodie. Nothing too flashy. Just stuff that fits—stuff I can hide behind while pretending I’m someone who knows how to exist in this body.

Every second feels heavier, but I bite it down and keep moving.

Because if I don’t?

I’m going to break right here in the middle of the women’s department.

And I’m not ready to fall apart yet.

By the time we reach the checkout, the cart’s piled with way more than I thought it would be.

Jeans. Shoes. Tees. Simple hoodies. A few bras and enough socks and underwear to hopefully last without another emergency trip anytime soon.

I keep my head down as Mom chats lightly with the cashier, like this is just any normal shopping trip and not the single most humiliating moment of my life.

The beeping of the scanner feels endless.

When the total flashes on the little screen, I flinch a little, but Mom just pulls out her card without hesitation.

Don’t think about it. Don’t think about it.

We grab the bags, arms loaded, and make a beeline for the doors.

The cold air slaps me in the face the second we step outside, but it’s almost a relief.

We load the bags into the trunk in silence.

When I finally collapse into the back seat, I let my head fall back against the headrest with a long, exhausted sigh.

“That was the worst,” I grumble.

Mom just laughs quietly as she gets in. “You did great.”

I snort. “If by ‘great’ you mean ‘didn’t scream or die,’ sure.”

She reaches over and squeezes my hand gently.

“Exactly.”

I’m about two seconds from closing my eyes and pretending to be asleep for the rest of the day when Mom speaks up, glancing over at me with that same gentle, careful tone she’s been using since we left the store bringing me out of my trance.

“We’ve just gotta stop by the school,” she says casually. “Get the paperwork sorted.”

I groan quietly, sliding lower in my seat until the belt digs into my shoulder.

“Of course we do,” I mutter.

“And then,” she adds, like she’s dangling a carrot in front of me, “why don’t we get some lunch? Something good. You deserve it after today.”

I crack one eye open to look at her.

“Bribing me with food now?”

She shrugs, smiling a little. “Hey, it works.”

I huff out a breath that’s almost a laugh, dragging myself back upright.

“Fine. But it better be something greasy and unhealthy,” I grumble, folding my arms stubbornly across my chest.

“Deal,” she says, turning onto the road that’ll take us toward Midtown High.

The buildings roll past outside the window, but my stomach knots tighter the closer we get.

The school.

Where I’m going to have to walk in as ‘Elisa.’

Where I’ll have to smile and nod and pretend I’m just another new face.

And not the ghost of someone who used to belong there.

I grip the strap of the seatbelt tighter, trying to hold myself together.

The school comes into view faster than I want it to.

Too fast.

Midtown High—same brick walls, same cracked sidewalks, same faded banners about ‘academic excellence’ drooping over the entrance like limp promises.

Everything’s the same.

Except me.

The taxi slows, pulling into the visitor parking lot.

She doesn’t move right away. Neither do I.

I stare at the entrance, heart pounding, hands sweaty against my jeans.

“You okay?” she asks softly, not looking at me yet. Giving me the choice to answer. Or not.

I shrug a little, staring harder at the windshield.

“No,” I say finally. “Not really.”

She nods like she expected that.

“You don’t have to be,” she says. “Not today. Not tomorrow either, if it takes longer.”

I chew the inside of my cheek, fingers drumming lightly against my leg. “What if I mess it up?” I ask, voice small. “What if I can’t… pretend good enough?”

Mom finally looks at me then—really looks.

“You don’t have to pretend to be someone else, Arin,” she says carefully. “You’re still you. Even if you’re wearing a different name right now.”

I swallow hard. My throat aches.

“You say that,” I whisper, “but it doesn’t feel true.”

She reaches across the seat and squeezes my hand—warm, steady, real.

“It doesn’t have to feel true yet,” she says. “You just have to keep going.”

I squeeze her hand back once—quick, almost embarrassed—then pull away and wipe my palms on my jeans.

“Okay,” I say, voice hoarse.

“Okay,” she echoes, giving me a small smile.

We sit there one more second, both breathing, both bracing.

Time to go in.

Time to become Elisa.

At least… for now.

The doors to Midtown High feel heavier than I remember.

Or maybe it’s just me—weighted down by the clothes that fit too well, the name that doesn’t fit at all, and the gnawing anxiety coiled tight in my stomach.

Mom pushes the door open first, giving me a little nudge with her elbow like you got this, and I drag myself in behind her.

The front office smells like old coffee and paper. Familiar. Stupidly normal. A tired-looking woman in a cardigan and reading glasses sits behind the desk, clicking away on a keyboard that’s seen better decades.

She looks up when the door chimes.

“Hi there,” Mom says in her bright, polite voice—the one she uses when she’s pretending she’s not worried. “We’re here to register my niece. New to the country, living with us for a while.”

The woman smiles automatically, grabbing a clipboard with a stack of forms already clipped to it. She’s definitely done this a thousand times.

“Of course!” she chirps. “Welcome, sweetie.”

I flinch a little at the sweetie but manage a stiff smile.

“Name?” she asks, pen poised.

Mom glances at me, giving me the tiniest nod.

I swallow hard.

“Elisa,” I say, my voice coming out a little rough, a little high. “Elisa Coleman.”

The woman scribbles it down without missing a beat.

“Wonderful! We’ll just need some paperwork—proof of residence, vaccination records if you have them, and of course, we’ll get you a student ID photo scheduled.”

I feel my blood run cold.

Records.

Vaccination history.

Student ID.

I swallow hard, my mouth suddenly dry.

Oh.
Oh no.

We don’t have any of that.

Because I didn’t exist like this two days ago.

Because Elisa Coleman was made up last night in a panic over text messages.

I glance sideways at Mom, wide-eyed. She’s already sliding smoothly into damage control mode, smiling like she’s totally prepared for this.

“We’re still getting her records forwarded from back home,” she says easily. “Might take a few days with the time difference and everything.”

The secretary doesn’t even blink. “That’s fine! Just have them sent to the administration office when you get them.”

She rips off a sheet from the clipboard and hands it over.

“Fill this out, and we’ll get her in the system. We’ll also need a basic health screening form, but we can do that during orientation.”

I take the clipboard with trembling hands.

Mom gives my shoulder a small, reassuring squeeze.

It’s working.

Somehow, it’s working.

At least for now.

But every step, every form, every fake line we fill in—

It’s building a house of cards.

And I have no idea how long it’ll stand.

I scrawl the last fake signature at the bottom of the paperwork, hands aching from how tightly I’ve been gripping the pen. I hand the clipboard back to the secretary with a strained smile, trying not to look too desperate to leave.

Finally.

We’re done.

Mom thanks her, and we start heading for the door, bags still dangling from one hand, my nerves feeling frayed and raw.

Just a few more steps and we’re out of here.

Except—

“Ms. Coleman?”

I freeze.

The voice is familiar. Too familiar. My stomach plummets straight through the floor.

Oh shit.

I turn my head slightly, just enough to catch a glimpse out of the corner of my eye.

Luca.

Standing a few feet away in the hallway, a lazy grin on his face, hands shoved into his jacket pockets like he’s got all the time in the world.

He doesn’t know.

Of course he doesn’t.

To him, I’m just some new girl he’s supposed to meet.

But still—he’s looking right at me. At me. Expecting something. Expecting someone.

My heart hammers so loud I swear Mom can probably hear it from two steps behind me.

I try to smile.

It probably looks like a grimace.

“H-hi,” I manage, voice too high, too fake.

“This is Luca, one of our student guides,” the secretary say so. “He’s going to help show you around when you start tomorrow.”

Luca grins wider and sticks out a hand.

“Hey, Elisa, right? Welcome to hell.”

He laughs at his own joke.

I just stare at his hand for a second too long before awkwardly shaking it.

His grip is warm. Familiar.

And for one horrible, painful second, all I want to do is tell him the truth.

It’s me. It’s Arin.

But I can’t.

I can’t.

So I just nod stiffly, forcing the smile to stay.

“Thanks,” I croak.

Ok, Mom, come on, I scream in my head, practically vibrating with panic. Say we have to go, please, make up something—anything—get me out of here.

But instead…

Mom smiles that too-bright, too-forced smile and says, “Elisa, this is Luca. He’s a friend of Arin’s.”

No. No, no, no, no—

My breath catches.

Luca’s grin falters just a little, a tiny crease forming between his brows as he glances at me again, maybe noticing the way my whole body stiffens.

Friend of Arin’s.

Friend of me.

I swallow hard, willing my face not to crack.

“Uh, yeah,” Luca says after a second, his voice lighter, covering the weirdness. “Arin and I were… y’know. Lab partners. Physics.”

I nod—too fast, too stiff.

“Right,” I say, my voice way too small, way too wrong.

He doesn’t seem suspicious. Not yet. But his smile is a little more careful now. Like he’s sensing something off and can’t figure out why.

Mom, thankfully, swoops in again.

“We’ve got a few errands to finish,” she says quickly, hand landing lightly on my back. “But I’m sure you’ll see each other around tomorrow.”

I nod again, biting my tongue before anything else stupid can fall out of my mouth.

“Cool,” Luca says, smiling easy again. “See you, Elisa.”

I mumble something that sounds vaguely like see you and practically drag Mom out the door, the cold air slamming into me like a lifeline.

I don’t breathe until we’re back in the taxi.

I practically collapse into the seat, slamming the door shut harder than I mean to.

I sink down, dragging the seatbelt across my lap without even thinking, my body running on autopilot while my mind is just… spiraling.

Oh God.

I press my palms into my face, the world muffled and hot behind my hands.

I couldn’t even handle one conversation.

One.

Barely two minutes of awkward small talk, and I was ready to bolt like a scared animal. If Mom hadn’t stepped in, if Luca had asked one more question—one more—I don’t know what I would’ve done.

Thrown up?

Cried?

Screamed?

Maybe all three at once.

Mom climbs into the seat beside me, but she doesn’t say anything yet. She just gives me a minute, letting me sit there and crumble a little without comment.

The inside of the car feels too small, too full of all the things I can’t say out loud yet.

I dig my fingers into the fabric of my jeans, breathing hard through my nose.

How am I supposed to walk into school tomorrow?

How am I supposed to do this for an entire day?

I’m barely surviving thirty seconds at a time.

I stay slumped against the door, staring out the window like maybe I can just will myself into another universe where none of this ever happened.

Mom’s voice is soft, careful—not the you’re fine tone, not the move on tone. Just… there.

“I know that was hard,” she says quietly. “Especially pretending you didn’t know your friend.”

I don’t answer. My throat feels tight again, and I’m not sure I could get any words out without breaking.

“But it’s going to get better,” she continues. “It really is. Maybe not today. Maybe not tomorrow. But it will.”

I let out a long, shaky breath, feeling the pressure behind my eyes again, hot and miserable.

“I didn’t even say anything right,” I mutter, voice barely a whisper. “I sounded like a total freak.”

“You didn’t,” she says immediately. “You were nervous. Anyone would be. And he didn’t notice anything, Arin. He just thought you were a new girl, not someone he already knew.”

I hug my arms tighter around myself.

New girl.

That word scrapes against my insides in a way I hate. I want to scream that I’m not new. I’m me. I’m still Arin, underneath all this skin and panic and pretending.

But the truth is…

I don’t even know if I believe that anymore.

Mom puts the car in gear, the soft click of it grounding me just a little.

“Come on,” she says, giving me a small, encouraging smile. “Let’s get some lunch. You’ll feel better with something in you.”

I nod slowly, still feeling like a crumpled piece of paper, but grateful anyway.

Lunch.

A break.

A second to breathe.

I need that.

Badly.

End of chapter 3.

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