The days bled together. White walls, low hums of machinery, clipped voices behind glass—it was all starting to feel less like recovery and more like a cage. The air smelled faintly of antiseptic, sharp and sour, clinging to the back of his throat no matter how often he swallowed. Even the light seemed sterile here—too bright, too clean, burning away shadows but leaving him feeling exposed.
He told himself he was getting better, that every shaky step on those alien legs was progress, but the truth clawed deeper each time he caught his reflection in the reinforced glass. He wasn't getting better. He was getting further away.
They called it "routine monitoring." Just a few days back at the lab for observation, to make sure the changes had stabilized. But it didn't feel routine. It felt like he'd been handed back to them—prodded, measured, questioned. Small tests, endless scans, blood drawn until he swore they'd run him dry. His parents insisted it was temporary, but Aaron had stopped believing in the word temporary.
Earlier, he'd sat strapped into a chair while cold sensors mapped the heat patterns of his muscles. The technicians hadn't spoken to him except for the occasional command. Hold still. Lift your arm. Again. Their words were clipped, efficient, designed to keep distance. He hated their voices. He hated their stares even more—the way their eyes flicked over him, not with cruelty, but with the careful detachment people reserved for wild animals.
Hours later, he sat hunched on the edge of the narrow bed in one of the monitoring rooms, phone clutched awkwardly between padded fingers. Claws made everything harder—he'd already nicked the screen protector once by accident. The glow of the screen lit his face as he scrolled through the backlog of messages.
His friends hadn't stopped reaching out.
Hey, you okay? You just… vanished.
Mr. Kline paired us for the lab project. I'm stuck with Nathan. You owe me big time.
Seriously, dude. Where are you?
Aaron stared until the words blurred, the ache in his chest pressing tighter. School felt like a different lifetime. The sound of crowded hallways, the sharp scratch of pencils against paper, even the dull hum of a lecture—he missed it all in ways he couldn't explain.
But what could he say? That he couldn't come back because he wasn't human anymore? That he'd give anything for one more "normal" day, but if anyone saw him, they'd scream?
His claws tapped nervously at the glass screen as he typed. Got really sick. Doctors want me to stay home for a while.
Send.
The lie dropped into the thread like a stone into water, ripples vanishing almost immediately. It was easier than the truth, but heavier somehow.
The phone buzzed again. That sucks. We'll save your seat in the library. Come back soon, okay?
Aaron's throat tightened. His tail twitched hard against the sheets, curling around one leg like it could keep him anchored. He wanted to answer—wanted to promise—but his claws dug into the blanket instead, snagging threads until they tore loose.
Through the glass wall came muffled voices—two lab techs at their station. He couldn't make out the words, but he recognized the cadence: hushed, wary, like people discussing a dangerous animal too close to the bars. He pressed his ears flat against his skull and curled tighter into himself, wishing they would just stop.
Aaron shoved the phone face-down on the bed, the buzzing notifications muffled against the sheets. He curled his knees to his chest, blanket bunching awkwardly around his tail. His eyes burned, but he blinked hard, refusing to let it spill over.
The messages kept coming. Little reminders that the world outside was still spinning, still laughing, still living.
And he stayed very still, caught between the silence of the lab and the noise of a life he no longer belonged to.
Aaron shifted restlessly on the bed, the sheets rustling beneath him. The silence wasn't empty—it was full. Every tick of the clock, every hum from the vent, every distant footstep in the hallway pressed in around him until it felt like the walls themselves were listening.
He glanced at his hands again. The fur along his wrists had grown thicker, darker in the past days, catching the light when he turned them. The glow from his pads had dimmed, but it never vanished. It never let him forget.
He flexed his claws slowly, wincing as the tips scraped faint lines across the blanket. Something as simple as holding a pen now seemed impossible. He thought about math class, about scrawling numbers across paper without a second thought. About the sound of his friends' laughter echoing in the hall between periods. It all felt so far away—like memories borrowed from someone else's life.
The phone buzzed again, stubborn in its persistence. He flipped it over with an unsteady paw, careful not to press too hard against the glass. Another message.
We're planning to hit the arcade after school Friday. If you're up for it, you should come. Haven't been the same without you.
His stomach twisted. He could picture it—the flashing lights, the noise, the smell of greasy pizza and soda. The three of them lined up at the machines, laughing at each other's terrible scores. His throat tightened at the thought of being there, of belonging.
But the image shattered as quickly as it came. He pictured walking through the door like this—digitigrade legs clicking against the tiles, tail flicking with every movement, eyes glowing in the dark. The laughter would die in seconds. The screams would come next.
Aaron shut the phone off and set it carefully aside, screen dark. He couldn't risk imagining anymore.
Across the glass wall, he caught sight of his father, standing with a clipboard, head bent low as he studied the day's data. David's shoulders slumped with fatigue, though his hands never stopped moving. Always working. Always watching.
Aaron wondered if his dad still saw him as his son—or as the experiment that should've never happened.
The door slid open again, and this time both his parents entered. Catherine first, carrying another cup of tea. David followed behind, setting the clipboard on the counter with a tired sigh.
"How are you holding up?" Catherine asked, settling into the chair beside his bed. Her voice was soft, but the worry behind it was sharp enough to cut.
Aaron shrugged. "Fine." The word felt like a lie the second it left his mouth.
"You haven't touched dinner," David said, nodding toward the untouched tray. His tone wasn't scolding—more weary, like every word carried its own weight.
Aaron glanced at it, then looked away. "Not hungry."
"You need to keep your strength up," his father pressed. "The tests—"
"Enough, David," Catherine cut in gently, but firmly. She reached out, brushing her hand across Aaron's furred arm. "He's tired. He doesn't need another lecture right now."
Aaron's throat ached. He wanted to say something—I miss school. I miss my friends. I want my life back. But the words caught and tangled until all that came out was a soft: "Do I have to stay here much longer?"
His mother's hand tightened on his arm. "No. Just a few more days. Then we'll go home, and this will be behind us."
"Behind us?" Aaron's ears flicked back. He wanted to believe her, but the reflection in the glass told him otherwise. This wasn't something he could leave behind. It was written into his skin, his bones, every flick of his tail and glow of his pads.
David sat down at last, rubbing his temples. "We're doing this to make sure you're safe, Aaron. That's all. It's not punishment."
"Feels like it," Aaron muttered.
His father looked at him then—really looked, eyes heavy, searching. Whatever words he wanted to say, he swallowed them down. Instead, he only managed: "I know."
Silence stretched between them, fragile as glass. Catherine gave Aaron's shoulder a final squeeze before rising. "Try to get some rest. We'll be right outside."
When they left, the door hissing shut behind them, the silence rushed back in, heavier than before.
He pulled the blanket tighter around himself, ears folding back against his skull. The hum of the lab filled the silence again, steady, inescapable.
Minutes dragged. Someone passed by the hall outside, their shoes squeaking faintly against the polished floor. A door clicked shut somewhere distant, echoing like a gunshot in the stillness.
The ceiling lights buzzed overhead, steady, unyielding. He wished for darkness, even shadows—something softer than this endless, clinical glare. He imagined being back in his room at home, blinds half-closed, rain tapping softly against the windowpane. But the image slipped away as quickly as it came, leaving him stranded in fluorescent light.
Dinner arrived on a tray—protein bars, steamed vegetables, something that smelled faintly of fish. He pushed it aside without tasting it. The appetite wasn't there. Food didn't fill the hollow ache.
And for the first time that day, Aaron wished the messages would stop.