Wallis had always kept her goals modest. Charmingly boring, even. She wanted to enjoy school life, ace her exams, land a decent job, live somewhere safe, and make her family proud. Nothing fancy. Nothing world-ending. Unfortunately, ‘not world-ending’ was no longer on the table.

  The diagnosis had been delivered in the sterile, windowless room of a hospital’s observation wing for dangerous individuals. For twelve days, this room had been her prison, the outside world a distant, fading memory. “By all biological metrics, you are a Skinwalker,” the doctor had stated, his voice toneless.

  The word hung in the air, suffocating more than solitude. Skinwalkers were the stuff of nightmares, intelligent Nevarids who consumed their human hosts from the inside out, wearing their skin as a disguise. They were the sworn enemies of every other species, themselves included.

  A little over a century ago, the Nevarids had clawed their way into the world—whether from meteor, grave, or something worse, no one ever agreed. They came as poison given shape: vast, abstract masses of white, gray, and black. They devoured. They spread. They nearly ended all life before the world itself began killing them back.

  They adapted.

  Some learned to burrow into human bodies to survive the hostile surface, fusing their substance, Nevas, into flesh and bone. The process was a brutal gamble. Whether the Nevarid survived or was extinguished, it left behind a permanent legacy: a physical inheritance of power known as Nevas, slimy structures that could be concealed or revealed at will within the host’s limbs.

  Only a successful fusion, one where the Nevarid survived as a living Companion, sealed the bond with a colored Nyris on the host’s skin. A Nyris was proof of a living monster tethered to one’s body. A dead Nevarid could make you powerful, but only a living one could give you its mark.

  And then there were the others.

  The ones who did not share. The ones who consumed: the Skinwalkers.

  But Wallis’ case was a chilling anomaly. Scans revealed the Nevas wasn’t confined to her limbs; it had fused with every cell of her being, a phenomenon unheard of even in the most complete Transformations. That level of integration defined a Skinwalker.

  Yet things didn’t add up.

  A new, intricate black Nyris, like ink bleeding through her forearm, had appeared. Skinwalkers weren’t supposed to have a Nyris. Her body temperature ran hotter than any recorded Transformed or Skinwalker. And most unnervingly, her supposed Companion had never materialized.

  This confounding set of symptoms was the only reason she was still alive. It explained the palpable hostility that radiated from the guards, the dozen elite Transformed fighters stationed outside her door. They were prepared for a bloody confrontation with a being they believed to be a master of deceit.

  During one of the countless interrogations, they had brought in a full squadron. "Drop the act," their leader had snarled. But instead of the savage outburst they anticipated, they were met with Wallis' unwavering, terrified insistence: "I am not a Skinwalker."

  Her steadfast denial, coupled with the bizarre medical readings, kept the execution order at bay. She was an invaluable, if terrifying, subject of study. Trapped in her sterile prison, stripped of all electronics, she had clung to the last vestiges of her old life, studying relentlessly for her final exams, which, funnily enough, they had allowed.

  It was this semblance of normalcy that likely saved her. Two days before the exams were scheduled to begin, the doctors made a startling decision. Citing her apparent stability, they agreed to her discharge. In truth, it was a calculated risk, a cruel field experiment to observe her behavior in a natural environment. With strict precautions in place, including a permanent tracker and a dedicated handler, they were releasing their most perplexing subject back into the world. The timing was brutal, but for Wallis, it was a sliver of hope. She was no longer just an anomaly in a cage; she was a student with exams to ace. And that, at least, was a goal she understood.

  Now, there she stood, alone in the bathroom, staring at herself in the mirror one last time before leaving for home.

  Dark brown eyes. Hair the shade of sable, deep and even. Lips unnaturally red. Skin unnaturally pale, like winter stone. Her neck looked too long; her figure, too tall.

  Was this who she was now?

  She used to be a normal fifteen-year-old girl with soft, even innocent, features. Now she looked like a vampire. While she might pass for a tall teen at a glance, the longer one looked, the more wrong her body appeared.

  'Merciless reflection.'

  Pressing her lips together, she stared at the mirror, scanning herself. She was surprised to learn that she didn't feel too bad about her figure. She still looked like a human, a lady, if just a bit,

  'I look... disturbing.'

  She stared harder.

  'Exquisitely disturbing,' she convinced herself, letting out a morbid chuckle.

  She glanced at her hands. They’d changed too—fingers longer, joints flatter, almost seamless. Every bend in her limbs felt strange, like space had slipped in between the bones; her fingers bent in every direction, and Skinwalkers didn’t have that either.

  She remembered the first time she tried to stand in the hospital: her knees had gracelessly folded inward, sending her straight to the floor, like a newborn foal. No wonder Doctor Benner had warned her not to move too much.

  There were other things the doctors couldn’t treat or explain. For example, why did time move slowly in her perception? Every breath, every blink, dragging out longer than it should, making her feel lost. But she had to figure out how to handle each of them before she completely lost her grip on reality. After all, what’s the point of sanity if you can’t enjoy the absurdity?

  But that was that. She slipped her hands into her coat pockets, turned her back to the mirror, and walked out of the bathroom.

  Time to go home.

  A nurse waited to guide Wallis from the heavily guarded observation wing. The silence of the sterile halls was broken only by the soft squeak of their shoes, a rhythmic counterpoint to the frantic thumping in Wallis' chest. They navigated a labyrinth of corridors and stairwells, each turn taking her further from the antiseptic prison and closer to a life she wasn't sure she recognized anymore. Finally, they emerged at the Admissions desk.

  Wallis scanned the small waiting area, her eyes darting between the few occupants—and guards—searching for a familiar face. Her mother was supposed to be here. And then, she saw her.

  If you stumble upon this tale on Amazon, it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.

  A woman rose from her chair, a strange, unreadable emotion flickering in her eyes. It was her mother, but not. The same fiery ginger hair, the same constellation of freckles across her nose, but etched with new lines of worry, a subtle exhaustion that hadn't been there before

  Behind the desk, a bored man fiddling with a squishy ball gestured to them without looking up. “You and your daughter need to sign here, please,” he said, pointing a pen to the bottom of the form.

  Rosaline moved with hesitant grace, her hand trembling slightly as she took the offered pen and scratched her signature onto the paper. She then beckoned to Wallis, her gesture both a plea and a command.

  As she stepped forward, the scent of her mother’s familiar perfume, a mix of lavender and something uniquely her own, filled her senses. It was the first real thing she had felt in weeks. When her fingers closed around the warm plastic of the pen, her mother’s soft, low voice sounded like a melody in her ears,

  “Can you walk?”

  Wallis felt a wave of nostalgia as she nodded with attentive, happy eyes. It was the first time she had heard that voice since their last phone call.

  With the last of the rigid paperwork completed, they finally got to greet each other properly. Rosaline clutched the signed forms as if they were a lifeline, her gaze fixed on the daughter she hadn't been allowed to see.

  They stood in silence for a moment, then Wallis scratched her head and smiled awkwardly. “Hi, Mom.”

  Rosaline's own smile was fragile, if relieved. “My dear…” She looked her daughter up and down, a storm of emotions brewing in her eyes until they overflowed. “L-look at you…!” she choked out, a tear tracing a path through her face. “You’re as tall as your brother.”

  “I look nothing like him, though,” Wallis countered gently, a tentative smile playing on her lips.

  A wet chuckle escaped Rosaline. “Oh? No, you do?”

  They stood there in silence again. Rosaline let out a deep sigh and carefully pulled her daughter into a tight hug.

  “I’m sorry you had to go through that,” she whispered, her voice shaking against her daughter's shoulder.

  Wallis stood stiffly in the embrace, unsure how to respond to this sudden warmth. “It’s fine,” she murmured. “It’s not your fault.”

  A fire flickered in Rosaline’s eyes, a silent curse against the monsters who had done this to her child. But the world was a cruel place, where the strong preyed on the weak, and justice was a luxury they couldn't afford.

  She pulled back, patting Wallis' back as she wiped at her own tears. “I’m glad you’re back, my love.” Her voice was still heavy with emotion, but she forced a brighter tone. “Okay, let’s go. You must be tired.” Taking a step toward the exit, she smiled bravely. "If you need a hand, just tell me. Now, come on.”

  Wallis watched her mother, a flicker of hope igniting in her chest. Maybe, just maybe, she wouldn't be abandoned. Unless her mother planned to toss her from the car on the way home, this was real. This was her mom, loving and caring as always. A genuine smile finally reached her eyes, and she followed the retreating redhead.

  It was deep in the night, and the car ride was a quiet affair, neither of them really knowing what to say. The young girl especially didn’t want to speak to her mother. Not because she was angry, but because she’d hate the slow torment she would go through, and she didn’t want to start hating her mother.

  The vehicle they drove was unremarkable—an unremarkable, sturdy gray sedan that spoke of a life lived on an average salary. In an age of technological marvels, such things were easy to come by; it was the money that remained elusive.

  They parked in front of a plain beige apartment building, its roof adorned with massive solar panels and its windows gleaming with a UV-protective sheen. Rosaline retrieved a white card from her wallet and pressed it against a reader on the reinforced fence. With a creak, the gate slid open. The fence, though a cheaper model, was enough to deter the low-level Nevarids that roamed the city outskirts.

  The same card granted them access to the main building. Inside, a small hallway presented them with a door on either side and an elevator nestled between them, stairs on the opposite side.

  “Try to use the elevators more than the stairs now,” Rosaline said gently. Wallis, who had always preferred the stairs for short trips, found herself in a body that felt more like jelly than flesh, so she had to agree.

  “I will,” she said.

  The elevator ascended with a soft whir, classical music playing faintly through a hidden speaker. When the doors opened to their floor, Wallis found her voice.

  “Mom?”

  “Yes, dear?” Rosaline replied, already pressing the white card to yet another reader beside their apartment door.

  “Can’t I take the exams later? Maybe over the summer?”

  Rosaline paused, her fingers hovering over the keypad. She shot the girl a quizzical look. “No? We barely got you out of there to attend the exams now. Why would you want to take them over the summer?”

  Wallis shrugged as the door beeped and swung inward. “I just don't want to go to school looking like this.”

  Noises. Voices. Blah, blah, blah.

  He groaned and sat up on the couch, his face twisted in irritation. Did someone invite guests without telling him? His mom had said she was going to get someone.

  A frowning redheaded boy resurfaced from behind the couch.

  “Why are you sleeping on the couch?” Wallis observed dryly.

  He blinked, confused. “What’s wrong with that?”

  He squinted, the familiar voice slowly piercing the fog of sleep. He fumbled for his glasses on a nearby pile of papers. As the world swam into focus, his frown melted away. “Whoa…” he breathed. “That’s you?” Right, she was supposed to come back today

  Ignoring him, Wallis kicked off her shoes and slipped on a pair of house slippers that were shorter than she’d liked.

  “Wismel, welcome your sister properly,” Rosaline chided.

  He stared at Wallis, who was bundled in a long brown coat, a black shirt, and blue jeans. “Y-yes. Warmest welcomes, dear sister. But…” He gestured to her attire. “And I was wondering which of my clothes Mom took. Is it winter already?”

  As Wallis carefully placed her hands on the armrests before easing herself into the armchair, mindful not to twist any joints, she retorted, “Obviously, you slept through the entire sum—”

  Upon feeling something shift in her right arm, she froze.

  The air behind the couch shimmered. Tiny black particles began to coalesce, drawing together from nothingness. They multiplied at an alarming rate, swirling and thickening until, in the blink of an eye, a colossal figure took shape.

  Simultaneously, a cacophony of sirens erupted from their phones, the apartment’s internal system, and the building’s main alarm, screaming a warning that was already too late.

  Behold the Nevarid. A magnificent and terrifying spectacle of unnatural creation. What appeared was a colossal, amorphous being, a chaotic mass of writhing, tentacle-like appendages that defied any sense of recognizable anatomy. Its sheer size was overwhelming, a truly huge and imposing figure with an uneven, abstract silhouette that seemed to flicker and shift at the edge of vision.

  The creature’s skin was a horrifying tapestry of darkness. A deep, void-like black dominated its form, covering the vast, muscular surfaces of its body and the shadowy undersides of its limbs, absorbing the light and promising oblivion. Streaked across the black were veins and calloused patches of stark ash-gray, giving it the appearance of ancient, cracked stone or charred flesh. Accentuating the horror were slivers of ghostly bone-white that traced the sharpest ridges and clustered around its sensory organs, a pale and sickly contrast to the overwhelming dark.

  Its very substance was a violation of nature. Gaping, raw-edged holes were torn violently through its body, unnatural voids that let one see straight through the monster, as if parts of its existence had been simply erased. Its entire being was a sensory organ; scattered across its hide were unnerving, countless small arcs that twitched with an unseen energy, tasting the air and sensing the world in a way no natural creature should. From its jagged base to the strange, fungal growths sprouting from its flesh, this particular Nevarid was an awe-inspiring monster: an abstract, terrifying being of magnificent horror, barely fitting beneath the roof.