Julie stirred in her bed, her breath slow and even as she sank deeper into sleep.
It was one of the few peaceful nights she'd had in weeks—no missions, no system alerts, no nightmares.
Until something shifted.
A chill crept down her spine like ice water seeping through her bones. Her eyes fluttered open, and for a moment, she didn't recognize the world around her.
It wasn't her bedroom.
The walls—if they could be called that—were dark and wet, glistening as if they were made of some living membrane.
A soft, pulsing sound echoed in the distance, rhythmic and steady like a heartbeat. The air smelled of salt and metal, and her breath came out in slow, heavy gasps.
"What…?"
She whispered, sitting up slowly.
She looked down at her hands.
They weren't her hands.
Her fingers were longer, thinner. Webbed.
Panic flared in her chest. She turned her palms over, flexing her fingers. They moved—fluid, strange, wrong.
