Jameson dug the worms out of his arm.
After only a few days, the thing had already swollen to twice its original size. Along with its newly spawned "companions," it writhed and rolled gleefully amid the man's bloody, torn flesh—clearly having eaten its fill inside Jameson's body, enjoying the best possible conditions.
With a cold expression, Jameson flung the nauseating creatures to the floor, then ground them under his shoe again and again in a fit of rage, crushing them into pulp.
At that point, he thought it was finally over. Unable to restrain his relief, he even drank a little before bed, hoping it would help him fall into a deep, peaceful sleep more quickly.
One night passed. The alcohol wore off.
Jameson sat up from the edge of the bed and rubbed his eyes with his left hand, still wrapped in bandages.
As he passed the full-length mirror—originally prepared for Wendy—he cast a casual glance at his reflection.
And froze.
