The first time Kael noticed it, the patch of skin at the base of his neck was no larger than a coin. It felt warmer than the surrounding skin, as if a tiny pulse throbbed beneath the surface.
By the third day, the area had changed. Small, pale bumps had begun to cluster together, catching the light when he turned his head in the mirror. They weren’t like pimples—too firm, too symmetrical. He told himself it was nothing, but the sensation didn’t go away.
On the fifth night, he dreamed of crawling through a narrow tunnel. The walls pressed in on him, slick and uneven, lined with small nodules that flexed and shifted under his touch. At the tunnel’s end, a thin, vertical slit quivered, and he woke with a sharp sting running down his neck.
He went to the med-bay, but the ship’s diagnostic scanner showed no infection, no abnormal growths. “No anomaly detected,” the AI repeated. Still, the texture was changing daily. He could feel it when he tilted his head—tiny movements under the skin.
By the end of the week, the bumps had multiplied, forming a faint ridge that trailed down between his shoulders. In quiet moments, he swore he could hear faint clicks or pops, like something adjusting itself inside him.
The first time he touched the ridge directly, it twitched. His vision dimmed for a second, and his stomach dropped. The skin felt thinner than it should—almost like the seam of a sealed wound.
That night, the ridge split slightly. A clear fluid seeped out, and a thin, dark shape moved beneath. He froze, too terrified to breathe.
By morning, Kael was gone. In his cabin, the pillow was stained with clear, sticky residue, and a faint trail of bumps led to the corridor door.
