They said it would be simple.
A small cut. A stitch. A missing piece neatly taken away.
When he woke, the pain was nothing more than a dull hum — something that came and went beneath the noise of everyday life.
He went back to work. Smiled when people spoke to him. Laughed when he was supposed to. But sometimes, mid-sentence, he’d feel it — a faint pressure under his ribs, like something turning over in its sleep.
Once, at a cafe, a sudden jolt made him drop his spoon. A pulse of warmth bloomed under his skin, then faded, leaving only the echo of movement behind.
The waitress glanced over. “You okay?”
He looked up, blinking. “Yeah. Fine.”
She hesitated, then turned away. The hum of the machine filled the air again, steady and indifferent.
He flexed his fingers beneath the table. It was cold.
At night, it was harder to ignore. Lying in the dark, he’d feel it again — slow, steady, patient — as if waiting for him to notice. He told himself it was healing, nerves reconnecting, nothing more. But sometimes, when he pressed his hand to his chest, it pressed back.
The night it happened, he felt it twist.
He stumbled to the bathroom, one hand pressed hard against his side, breath catching in short, frantic bursts. His reflection swayed in the mirror — pale, uncertain, no longer quite his own.
“It’s in my head,” he whispered. “Not real. Not real.”
But the mirror did not lie.
Something was moving beneath the skin.
The surface rippled — a ridge pushing outward, curling wrong, spiraling toward his heart.
He stared, frozen. The room was silent except for his breath, ragged and shallow.
Each rib shifting. Trembling. Waking.
He tried to scream, but his body betrayed him.
