The drive home was quiet.
David hummed along to the radio, tapping his fingers rhythmically against the steering wheel. The music was soft, barely louder than a whisper. Beside him, Aaron sat motionless, staring out the passenger window. The world outside blurred past—streetlights flashing by like pale ghosts in the dark.
His stomach felt tight. Something inside twisted and writhed like it was alive. But he said nothing.
He couldn't.
What could he possibly say? "Hey Dad, remember those pills genetically modified with cat and shark DNA? Yeah... I thought they were mints and swallowed one."
No. That would send him into a spiral. He might drag Aaron to the hospital—or worse—back to the lab. He wasn't ready for that. Not yet.
Maybe nothing would happen, he told himself. Maybe they weren't active. Maybe I just swallowed a dud. Maybe... I'll be fine.
He clung to that hope like a life preserver.
They pulled into the driveway. The porch light flickered faintly as they stepped out of the car and into the cool night air. The moment Aaron walked through the front door, a familiar warmth enveloped him—floral, faintly vanilla. The scent of home. It grounded him for a fleeting moment.
Catherine was curled up on the living room couch, a blanket over her legs, a steaming mug in her hands.
"So, how was your big day at the lab?" she asked with a soft smile.
David grinned as he stretched. "It went really well. Got to show him around, meet the team. Quiet day overall."
Aaron forced a smile. "Yeah... it was cool. A little overwhelming, but really cool." He rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly hyperaware of the sweat that had gathered there. "I'm... feeling kinda tired though. Think I'll head to bed early."
Catherine raised a skeptical eyebrow. "Really? You? Voluntarily going to sleep?"
Aaron let out a weak laugh. "First time for everything, right?"
She chuckled, and David ruffled his son's hair as he turned to head upstairs. "Sleep well, bud. Thanks for coming with me."
"Yeah... goodnight."
He took the stairs two at a time.
The dread hit him like a crashing wave the moment he stepped into the upstairs hallway. He barely made it to the bathroom before he dropped to his knees in front of the toilet, gagging hard, his whole body trembling. He tried to force something—anything—out. His stomach cramped. His throat burned. But nothing came up. Only sour saliva and empty, acidic air.
"Come on..." he whispered through gritted teeth. "Get it out. Please..."
He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. His skin was clammy, his fingers cold. Or maybe it was just him. He wasn't sure anymore.
A thousand thoughts spiraled through his mind, each worse than the last.
What if it's already working? What if I wake up with fur? With gills? With fangs? What if I don't wake up at all?
He sat there for what felt like forever, staring down at the floor tiles as though they held the answers. But the bathroom was silent—too silent. The kind of silence that made the whole house feel like it was holding its breath.
Eventually, he pushed himself up, stumbling into his room like a sleepwalker. The air felt heavier in here, like it was pressing down on him. He crawled into bed, pulling the blankets tightly around himself. Every creak of the house made him flinch. Every heartbeat felt thunderous in his ears.
He kept whispering to himself in the dark: I'll be fine. It's fine. I'll wake up, laugh about it. It won't do anything.
Maybe then—maybe—he could tell his dad the truth.
But that cold, creeping dread had already curled up inside him like something alive.
What if it's already too late?
He lay on his back, eyes fixed on the ceiling. Shadows shifted slowly across it, cast by the moonlight filtering through his blinds. His body felt still. Too still.
Like it was waiting.
He didn't remember falling asleep.
But his dreams came fast. Violent. Disjointed.
White walls. Needles. Cages. The sound of water rushing all around him—cold and black. A deafening roar that echoed through his bones like thunder underwater.
And then... his reflection.
It stared back at him from some kind of glass.
But the eyes weren't his anymore.
And then—silence.