-Early Morning: Sarah at Work (12 AM - 7 AM)-
By 4 AM, Sarah felt off.
She had spent the last few shifts trying to convince herself that whatever had been happening to her body was over. The unbearable wetness. The heat. The way she had needed something so desperately it had driven her into Jason’s arms without hesitation.
But now?
Now she just felt empty.
It wasn’t the same overwhelming craving. It wasn’t that deep, all-consuming hum that had left her desperate for release. This was different. Wrong.
Her skin felt hot but clammy, her breath shallow, and a dull ache had settled deep in her bones. The headache that had started in the back of her skull was slowly creeping forward, pressing into her temples like a vice.
She rubbed at her eyes, trying to focus on the monitor in front of her, but the letters blurred together for a split second before snapping back into focus.
I think I’m getting sick.
The thought settled heavily in her chest, her stomach twisting at the realization.
Her fingers hovered over her phone. She hesitated. Then, almost without thinking, she typed:
Sarah: Hey, you up?
The response came quickly.
Jason: Always. What’s wrong?
A breath of relief left her. She wasn’t sure what she wanted from him—maybe just to talk, to feel grounded. She shifted in her chair, her body aching in a way that had nothing to do with exhaustion.
Sarah: Idk, I don’t feel great. Just kinda weird.
A pause.
Then, Jason’s reply:
Jason: Damn. You need me to come take care of you?
Her chest warmed slightly—until the next text popped up.
Jason: I can make you feel better 😉
Her stomach twisted for an entirely different reason.
She should have expected that. Of course he’d say that. Jason wasn’t her boyfriend. He wasn’t her anything, really. And she wasn’t mad at him, not exactly—this was just how he was. Casual, easy, never looking for anything deeper.
But right now, she wanted something deeper.
She wanted someone to rub her back. To tuck a blanket around her. To hold her without expecting anything in return.
She pressed her lips together, staring at his message for a long moment before finally replying.
Sarah: Not today.
His response came almost immediately.
Jason: Alright. Feel better, babe.
Short. Simple. Distant.
She swallowed down the small lump in her throat and locked her phone, shoving it back into her pocket.
She wasn’t mad. She wasn’t.
But for some reason, she suddenly felt very alone.
With a slow, unsteady breath, she pushed herself up from the chair, throwing herself back into her work.
Just hold it together. Get home. Sleep it off.
Because whatever this was—this aching emptiness, this slow, creeping fever—it would pass. It had to.
-Morning: Sarah Comes Home, Rick Wakes Up (7 AM - 8:30 AM)-
Sarah slipped inside the house as quietly as she could, kicking off her shoes near the door with a tired sigh. Her body ached in a way that felt deeper than just exhaustion. Her skin was clammy, her limbs heavy, but her mind wouldn’t let her fully relax. Like she was coming down with something.
The kitchen was dim, barely illuminated by the soft morning light filtering through the blinds. She moved through the house by muscle memory, her fingers brushing the wall as she stepped toward the bedroom.
She just needed sleep.
But when she pushed open the door, she froze.
Rick was still in bed, his body turned slightly toward her, lost in sleep. His chest rose and fell in slow, steady breaths, his face peaceful in the kind of way that only existed in deep rest. But it wasn’t the same.
Sarah’s fingers curled around the doorframe.
His face was softer. She could see it now. The sharp angles she had memorized over the years—the ones that had once felt like home—were shifting. His jawline was blurred, rounding in ways that made her chest tighten with something she didn’t have words for. His hair, slightly mussed from sleep, looked… thinner. Not by much, but enough that she noticed.
And she didn’t like that she noticed.
A slow, dull throb settled behind her temples.
Sarah exhaled sharply through her nose and climbed into bed beside him, pressing herself deep into the mattress. Her body felt wired despite her exhaustion, every nerve in her skin hyper-aware of how wrong she felt inside. She just needed to close her eyes. To breathe.
Rick shifted in his sleep, mumbling something incoherent before instinctively turning toward her.
His warmth brushed against her side.
Sarah stiffened.
It was immediate—a visceral, physical reaction that made her breath catch in her throat. It wasn’t disgust, not exactly, but something primal hit her all at once. A deep, unnameable discomfort that settled in her stomach like a rock.
She clenched her jaw, forcing herself to stay still. Forcing herself not to recoil.
It’s still him.
She repeated the words in her head, over and over, like a prayer.
It’s still Rick.
But her body didn’t fully believe it.
She swallowed against the tightness in her throat and turned onto her side, facing away from him. After a few long, careful breaths, she let herself sink into sleep.
Rick stirred beside her at 8:30 AM, caught in that half-conscious state where everything felt hazy and heavy, like he was floating just outside of wakefulness.
For a second, he didn’t move.
Sarah’s body was warm beside him, her presence familiar, but something about the way she curled away from him made his stomach twist. He wasn’t sure why.
Maybe she was just tired. Maybe he was imagining it.
He exhaled slowly, rolling onto his back, staring at the ceiling.
His body felt off. Tight in some places, loose in others. His chest ached in a way that wasn’t quite soreness, and his skin felt… weird. Too smooth. Too sensitive.
He ran a hand over his face, fingers lingering near his jawline. Something wasn’t right.
Sarah shifted beside him, turning further away, her breaths deepening. She wasn’t waking up anytime soon.
Rick swallowed, slowly pushing himself up.
He didn’t want to lay here anymore.
-Morning: The Man in the Mirror (9 AM - 10 AM)-
Rick stood at the top of the basement stairs, gripping the railing harder than he needed to.
His bare feet pressed against the cool wood, and for a second, he didn’t move.
Heavy.
Not just from sleep. Not just from the dull ache that had settled into his muscles over the past few days. Something else. A weight that sat too deep in his chest, coiling in his stomach. Tight. Uneasy. Wrong.
It was the same feeling that had followed him down here last night. The same feeling that had kept him from sleeping soundly.
He exhaled through his nose. Steeled himself. One step at a time.
The second he reached the bottom, he moved automatically, pushing into the bathroom and locking the door behind him.
…Why?
Sarah was still asleep upstairs. She wouldn’t come looking for him. But the thought of her seeing him right now—of her looking at him the way **he had looked at himself last night—**made something twist in his gut.
His pulse thudded in his ears as he reached for the light.
A flicker. Then it steadied.
And there he was.
Rick didn’t want to look.
But he had to.
His hands braced against the sink, pressing into the cool porcelain as if it might ground him. His gaze lifted—slow, reluctant—until his reflection finally settled into focus.
His stomach dropped.
Not my face.
His jaw clenched on instinct. But the shape of it—it wasn’t right. Not completely. The sharpness that had always been there had softened, the hard edges rounded out. His cheeks looked fuller, the angles less pronounced.
And his skin—
What the fuck is wrong with my skin?
It wasn’t just smooth. It was too smooth. Too even. Like whatever made it human had been sanded down, leaving behind something just a little too perfect.
Rick swallowed. His throat bobbed in a slow, uneasy motion.
Barely shifted.
His breath hitched. His Adam’s apple—barely noticeable.
That wasn’t right.
That wasn’t fucking right.
His hands twitched against the sink, fingers itching at the hem of his shirt. He hesitated.
Do I want to do this?
No.
But that didn’t matter.
I have to.
His breath felt too controlled as he dragged the fabric upward, slow and deliberate—like he could stretch out the moment long enough for reality to change.
The second it lifted, he felt it.
Before he even saw it, he felt it.
The way the fabric pressed against his chest.
The way it curved over something that shouldn’t be there.
Rick’s pulse slammed against his ribs as the shirt bunched up beneath his chin, his bare chest exposed to the dim bathroom light.
His breath locked in his throat.
It’s real.
Not swelling.
Not just muscle.
Not nothing.
The roundness beneath his pecs was undeniable. Not big. Not yet. But unmistakable.
His skin—
Too smooth. Too soft.
Foreign.
His fingers twitched at his sides, aching to move—to press, to test, to confirm—but he didn’t want to touch it.
His heartbeat pounded.
No.
No, no, no.
The shirt fell back down, brushing too sharply against his skin. The sensation made him flinch.
His fingers curled around the sink. Hard. Knuckles going white, his grip so tight it made his arms shake.
He forced his gaze away.
Away from his chest.
Away from his throat.
His hands.
Fuck.
Too long. Too slender. The knuckles sharper, the veins that once mapped the backs of his hands now barely visible.
And his nails—
His breath caught.
What the fuck is wrong with my nails?
The edges—too precise. Too clean. Almost like they’d been filed into slight points.
Rick’s stomach coiled.
A slow nausea crawled up his throat, wrapping tight around his ribs.
His breath came faster. Uneven.
Get a grip.
You’re just seeing shit.
It’s stress. The hospital. The treatment.
You’re tired.
His pulse hammered as he ran a shaky hand through his hair—
And froze.
His fingers caught.
Strands pulled loose.
Rick yanked his hand away.
Stared down.
A few strands. Not a lot. Not enough to freak out.
But enough.
His fingers curled around them.
His breath stalled.
His body felt too warm. His skin too tight. His thoughts—too fast, too fucking loud.
Stop thinking.
Rick turned sharply, shoving the door open before he could make himself look again.
He needed air.
He needed to get the fuck out of this basement.
-Avoidance: Trying to Be Normal (10 AM - 3 PM)-
Rick needed to stop thinking.
He made coffee. He sat on the couch. He clicked on the TV. Routine. Just muscle memory. Just normal shit.
The remote rested in his hand, too light. His grip felt off. Not weak, exactly, but awkward, like he had to think about it. Like his fingers weren’t sitting in the right place. He pressed a button, and his thumbnail—**just slightly too sharp, too precise—**tapped the plastic first.
Click. Click.
His nails were getting in the way.
He adjusted his grip, pressing the buttons more carefully. But the small adjustments only made things worse—more obvious. His fingers weren’t the same. They weren’t sitting right. It was like trying to type on a keyboard with fake press-on nails.
Not mine.
The thought hit him fast, sharp.
Rick clenched the remote harder, dragging a hand through his hair—and stopped when he felt it.
Loose strands between his fingers.
His stomach dropped.
He lowered his hand, slowly, hesitating before looking.
A few strands. Just a few. But his scalp still tingled where he’d touched.
More hair in the shower.
Thinner in the mirror.
His jaw tightened, and his pulse hammered behind his ribs. This wasn’t normal. It wasn’t recovery. It wasn’t stress.
Something is happening to me.
But what?
His brain immediately fired off a dozen explanations. Hormones. Chemical exposure. Radiation. He thought about the hospital treatments, the experimental procedures. What the hell did they do to me?
He shook his head. No. No, that’s ridiculous. If it was radiation, if it was some kind of contamination, he’d be sick. Losing hair, yeah, but violently, not like this. He’d be throwing up, coughing, wasting away.
This was something else.
Rick exhaled through his nose and picked up his coffee, letting the heat settle in his chest. Ground yourself. Focus. But even this didn’t feel right. The warmth didn’t sink in the way it should. It just sat there, hovering under his skin.
His grip on the cup was too light. His fingers weren’t as strong. He could feel the smooth ceramic pressing into his too-sensitive palms.
His mind drifted to his hands.
They weren’t weak. They still worked. But his grip had changed. The shape of them. Thinner. Too thin. He flexed his fingers absently, watching them move, watching his nails catch the light.
Sharp edges. Faint points. Like they’d been shaped that way.
He sucked in a slow breath. What happens to nails like this? What grows this way?
Animal claws.
Alien claws.
Fucking hell.
He rolled his wrist, pressing his fingertips into the couch’s fabric, feeling the texture drag against them. Stop it. You sound insane.
His foot tapped against the hardwood.
A slow, creeping unease spread through him.
Rick blinked, looking down.
Bare feet against the floor. Nothing unusual. But—no. Something was off.
He stretched his toes, rolling his ankle slightly. A faint, dull ache spread through the bones, deep enough that he noticed it but not sharp enough to feel real. Like a muscle cramp that wouldn’t release.
He curled his toes against the floor. The sensation wasn’t right.
His stomach tightened.
They looked longer.
No. He was imagining it.
He stretched them again—flexing, testing, waiting for the feeling to pass. But it didn’t. His toes spread differently. The proportions were off. His feet weren’t sitting the same way they used to.
His pulse thudded at the base of his throat.
What the hell is happening to me?
His mind scrambled, pulling in fragments of bullshit theories.
A virus? A mutation? Some sci-fi horror shit?
He thought of comic book origin stories, some poor bastard stumbling into the wrong experiment and coming out changed. But that wasn’t real. That wasn’t logical. He was sick. He had to be.
His breath came out slow, shaky.
He wasn’t mutating. He wasn’t turning into some science experiment gone wrong.
…Right?
The hair. The nails. The skin. The chest.
Rick inhaled sharply.
His chest.
His jaw clenched, and his mind slammed back to the morning. The mirror. The too-soft, too-full roundness.
His breath hitched. Am I… growing boobs?
The thought made his entire body seize up. No. No fucking way. That wasn’t possible. That wasn’t—
But his brain kept working.
Hormones? A disorder? Some kind of imbalance? What if something in the hospital drugs had messed him up?
He rubbed his hands down his face, his nails scraping against his skin, and he forced himself to stop thinking.
It didn’t matter.
None of it mattered.
Rick forced his gaze back to the TV, eyes locking onto the screen, willing himself to ignore it.
It’s nothing. It’s fine. It’s just your head fucking with you.
His nails tapped against the ceramic of his coffee cup. A rhythm. An anchor. His foot twitched against the floor.
But the discomfort didn’t go away.
His body wasn’t his.
And no matter how much he tried to pretend otherwise, it was getting worse.
-Sarah Wakes: Fever and Frustration (3 PM - 5 PM)-
Sarah woke up feeling worse.
Not just tired. Not just drained. But sick.
Her skin felt too warm, feverish, and there was a heavy weight sitting in her stomach that made her body ache in ways that had nothing to do with exhaustion. It wasn’t the flu. It wasn’t anything she could name. It was deeper, like something had settled inside her and was clawing its way out.
Her limbs felt like lead as she dragged herself out of bed, barely bothering to brush her hair back as she made her way down the stairs. The first step made her dizzy, the second made her question whether she should’ve even gotten up at all.
Rick was still sitting at the kitchen table when she stepped into the room, just like before. Same hoodie, same posture, but this time, he looked up immediately.
Sarah barely made it past the doorway before letting out a breath and collapsing onto the couch. She tucked herself into the cushions, pulling the nearest blanket over her like a barrier.
Rick set his coffee down. “You okay?”
She exhaled sharply, her breath shaky. “No. I feel like shit.”
Rick frowned.
Sarah pressed her fingers against her forehead, rubbing slow circles into her temple. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I feel like I’m running a fever, but I’m not cold. Just… off.”
Rick hesitated, his fingers tapping lightly against the table. He wasn’t sure why, but hearing her say that made his stomach tighten.
“I can get you something,” he offered.
Sarah just nodded weakly.
Rick got up, moving toward the cabinet where they kept the medicine. He grabbed the bottle of ibuprofen, hesitated, then added some cold medicine just in case. His fingers felt clumsy as he moved, like his grip wasn’t sitting right. He ignored it.
By the time he walked back over to her, she had curled deeper into the couch, her body half-buried beneath the blanket. He set the pills and a glass of water on the coffee table beside her.
She cracked an eye open. “Thanks.”
Rick sat down on the other end of the couch, watching as she swallowed the pills with slow, sluggish movements.
She leaned back, closing her eyes again. “Can we just… watch something? Distract me?”
Rick grabbed the remote and turned on the TV.
-Dinner: Something’s Wrong (5 PM - 7 PM)-
By the time dinner rolled around, Sarah hadn’t moved much. She stayed tucked into the couch, occasionally shifting under the blanket, her skin still too warm, her face slightly flushed.
Rick stood in the kitchen, staring down at the ingredients in front of him. Chicken, some vegetables, a simple meal. He’d made this a hundred times before.
But when he started cooking, something felt off.
The smell of the chicken sizzling in the pan wasn’t appealing. In fact, it almost turned his stomach. The scent of the seasonings, the oil, the heat—it was all just wrong.
He swallowed against the unease, shaking his head.
It’s fine. Just cook.
By the time the food was ready, he could barely bring himself to care. The plate in his hands felt unappealing, like he was forcing himself to go through the motions of something that no longer made sense.
He walked back to the living room, handing Sarah a plate before settling beside her.
“Thanks,” she murmured.
They ate in silence, the TV playing in the background. Sarah took slow bites, her body still sluggish, but Rick… Rick could barely stomach his own food.
The taste was bland. Dull.
It wasn’t that the food was bad. It wasn’t overcooked or under-seasoned. But something in his gut recoiled at the texture, the heaviness of it sitting in his mouth. He forced himself to chew, swallow, chase it with water, but each bite felt worse than the last.
Halfway through his plate, he gave up.
Sarah barely noticed.
-Instincts (7 PM - 10 PM)-
After dinner, they settled in to watch a movie. Sarah curled deeper into the couch, her body still wrapped in the blanket, but her breathing had steadied a little. She still looked pale, still looked weak, but at least she wasn’t shivering anymore.
Rick, despite everything wrong with him, found himself watching her more than the screen.
She looked small like this. Fragile. And that didn’t sit right with him.
The quiet part of his brain—the part that hadn’t been completely consumed by panic over what was happening to him—told him to do something.
He shifted closer. Not too much. Just enough that his knee brushed against hers.
Sarah sighed. “You don’t have to hover.”
“I’m not,” he said, even though he was.
She didn’t argue.
A few minutes passed before Rick moved again, hesitating for a second before reaching out and pressing his palm against her back.
Sarah tensed slightly, then relaxed.
He rubbed slow circles between her shoulder blades, his fingers pressing lightly into the fabric of her shirt.
Sarah let out a small breath, her body sinking further into the couch.
Rick hesitated, then let his hand drift lower, his fingers sliding beneath the hem of her shirt, pressing against the bare skin of her back.
Sarah’s breath caught.
His skin—his body—should’ve felt normal. It should’ve felt like it always had.
But it didn’t.
She didn’t know why, but the second his fingers brushed against her spine, a warmth spread through her body. A soothing, almost addictive sensation, like stepping into a hot bath after being out in the cold for too long.
Her fever—her fucking fever—began to fade.
Rick didn’t know. Couldn’t know. But underneath his skin, something was changing. The sheen of his body, that faint, unnatural glow that neither of them had noticed yet, was more than just an oddity. It was doing something.
Sarah’s eyes fluttered shut.
For the first time all day, her headache dulled. The nausea faded. The fever that had been pressing into her skull like a slow-building pressure lifted.
Rick kept rubbing slow, absentminded circles against her back, completely unaware.
Sarah barely whispered, “That feels really nice.”
Rick swallowed. His fingers twitched slightly, pressing deeper, his thumb brushing against the dip of her spine.
“Good,” he murmured.
Neither of them said anything else.
They just sat there, letting the movie play, letting the quiet settle, pretending this was normal.
But Rick could feel it.
Something was happening.
He just didn’t know what.
-Bedtime: A Temporary Peace (10 PM - Midnight)-
By the time the movie ended, Sarah was practically asleep on the couch. Her breathing had evened out, her fever had nearly vanished, and she looked—if not good, then at least better.
Rick, despite everything, despite the sheer insanity of this day, still felt responsible for her.
He nudged her lightly. “C’mon. Let’s get to bed.”
Sarah groaned but shifted, rubbing her eyes as she slowly pushed herself up.
Rick followed her upstairs.
She climbed into bed first, rolling onto her side, pulling the blanket up to her chin.
Rick hesitated before slipping in beside her.
The bed felt too warm.
His body felt too warm.
But he didn’t move away.
Sarah mumbled something under her breath, already half-asleep.
Rick turned onto his back, staring at the ceiling.
His fingers curled into the sheets, pressing against the fabric.
Something was wrong.
Something was changing.
And as he lay there, feeling the slow rise and fall of his own breath, he knew one thing for certain—
Tomorrow, it would be worse.