Chris woke to the sound of wet chewing.
It took a moment to realize where he was. The dream had been vivid—something about grass, real sunlight, cold beer, and laughter. The taste of normal life still lingered on the edges of his tongue like a cruel joke.
Then came the stench.
Sour. Rotting. Metallic. Like meat left in a plastic bag under the sun.
His vision adjusted slowly. The bile-colored glow overhead painted everything a jaundiced green. His body ached. No—more than ached. It screamed. A sharp, stabbing fire tore through his side as he tried to sit up. When he looked down, he saw the cause.
A long, blackened gash just beneath his ribcage, curved and crusted with pus.
The wound oozed something thick and pearlescent, like half-coagulated glue. His skin around it had turned a pale violet, bruising in patterns that didn't look natural—like flower petals made from rotting flesh.
"Kelvin…?"
His voice was dry. Weak.
The chewing stopped.
Silence.
Chris tensed.
He reached for his Glock—but it wasn't beside him.
Panic.
He forced himself to his knees, groaning as the pain flared. Hot sweat poured from his brow. The pulsing organ-like floor squished beneath his palms like overripe fruit.
"Kelvin," he tried again.
A shape moved in the shadows ahead.
For a moment, his heart froze.
Then a familiar voice: "Dude, you look like shit."
Chris squinted.
Kelvin was crouched beside the remains of something that used to be a rat, maybe. Now it was just a flattened, pulsing corpse with too many teeth. He was poking it with the tip of his knife.
"I was hungry," he said, shrugging. "I didn't eat it. Just… checking."
Chris groaned. "Where's the—gun?"
Kelvin tossed him his Glock. It slid across the wet, bone-stitched surface of the island and stopped at his knee.
"Did you get hit or something?"
Chris pulled up his shirt and revealed the wound.
Kelvin winced. "Jesus. What the hell happened?"
"Something… clawed me. In my sleep, maybe." Chris gritted his teeth as he pressed two fingers around the edge. It burned worse than fire. "We need to treat it."
"Treat it with what? We have zero meds."
The flashlight flicked on with a crackle. Its weak beam scanned their gear again.
Protein bar. Bible. Knives. Nothing helpful.
Chris laid back, wheezing.
His AI watch buzzed.
"Infection detected."
"Sepsis likely within 36 hours."
"Recommend amputation."
"Funny," Chris croaked. "Real funny."
"I was not joking."
He closed his eyes.
And heard something breathing.
It wasn't Kelvin.
They moved camp further inland.
The "island" was larger than they thought—veins of tissue and pale cartilage formed hills and ridges. It felt less like land and more like they were walking inside an organ's dream. Trees with bulbous sacs swayed soundlessly as invisible air currents rippled through them. The sacs pulsed. Occasionally, one would burst with a quiet pop, releasing a spray of glowing spores.
Kelvin covered his mouth. "I'm not breathing that."
Chris didn't care. He could barely walk. Every step sent a new wave of agony through his side. He was sweating heavily now—his skin clammy and pale.
The sun overhead flickered again. Brief darkness washed over them.
Then the sound.
Wet. Heavy. Breathing.
Something vast exhaled.
The walls of the stomach contracted slightly. The light dimmed. The acid rivers surged.
Chris stumbled.
Kelvin caught him.
"We need to find shelter," he said. "Now."
They came upon a cave, nestled beneath what looked like a pile of ossified vertebrae. Inside, the ground was dry—relatively. Something had lived there, once. Long claw marks scraped across the walls. Blood smears dotted the floor. And bones. Dozens of them. Some human. Some not.
Chris collapsed inside with a groan.
Kelvin sat nearby, knife in hand.
"I'll keep watch."
Chris was drifting.
Sleep pulled at him like a riptide.
But the dream didn't come.
Not this time.
Instead, he found himself in a hallway.
Fluorescent lights. Bleached walls. Linoleum floors. His boots squeaked.
It was a hospital. Empty.
He walked slowly.
Doors lined the walls—each one slightly open. As he passed, he glanced inside.
One room showed his mother, dying in a bed, reaching out for help.
Another: his father, sobbing into a dirty motel sink.
Another: himself, staring into a mirror, skin peeling from his cheeks, eyes sunken and black.
He opened one door fully—and saw a mirror. His reflection.
Only it wasn't moving with him.
It just stood there, grinning.
The thing wearing his face whispered:
"You're already dead. You're just catching up."
Chris woke screaming.
Kelvin jumped, knife drawn. "What?! What is it?!"
Chris clutched his side.
The wound had spread.
The skin was splitting along the edges, as if something inside was pushing out.
Tiny black lines wriggled beneath the flesh—vein-like, but moving.
The AI buzzed again.
"Host body compromised."
"Foreign genetic material detected."
"Mutation underway."
Kelvin turned pale.
"We need to cut it out," he whispered.
Chris nodded, teeth clenched.
Kelvin raised the knife.
And the Leviathan breathed again—louder this time. The ground shook.
Something screamed in the distance.
Not human.
Not animal.
Something in-between.
Chris closed his eyes.
Not to sleep.
To pray.
And Gaia did not answer.
Kelvin's hands trembled as he gripped the combat knife. Chris sat against the wall of the bone-lined cave, sweat clinging to his skin like glue. His eyes were wide, unblinking, lips pale and pressed into a tight line. His chest rose and fell in uneven shudders.
The flesh around the gash had turned black in some places, grey-green in others. The pus was no longer oozing—it was weeping, clear fluid dripping steadily onto the floor. Beneath the skin, the tiny black lines danced, multiplying.
"I'm not trained for this, man," Kelvin muttered.
"Do it anyway," Chris hissed. "I can't... feel my toes."
"Jesus Christ." Kelvin exhaled hard, then took off his undershirt and tore it into strips with his teeth and knife. He used one to bite down on himself. Another, he handed to Chris.
"Bite."
Chris nodded. He slid the cloth between his teeth and braced himself against the wall.
Kelvin raised the knife.
"I'm going fast."
Chris gave a thumbs-up.
Kelvin dug the blade in.
Chris didn't scream.
He convulsed.
The knife split the skin like rotten fruit. Blood poured. The foul black pus exploded from the wound, splattering Kelvin's face and chest. The squirming lines spilled out like worms escaping sunlight—some trying to crawl back into the wound, others writhing in panic on the cave floor.
Kelvin gagged. "What the fuck are these—"
Chris spasmed violently, legs kicking against the floor. Blood painted the bones behind him in long, arching streaks. His vision went white, then red, then black. The pain wasn't sharp—it was alive, gnawing into his spine and flooding his gut with agony.
The AI Watch activated automatically.
"Warning: critical blood loss."
"Foreign organisms partially removed."
"Survival probability: 9%."
Chris, half-conscious, managed to groan: "Fix me…"
The screen flickered.
"Fix yourself. You meatbags invented suffering."
"But if you die here, I'll be stuck forever. I'd rather be destroyed."
It paused.
"Activating emergency Magicka protocol. Beginner level."
Chris's vision was a swirling mess of flickering lights and numb static. He felt something... open inside his chest.
"Listen carefully. You're going to circulate Magicka. You are bleeding out. Speed is critical."
Chris tried to nod but coughed blood instead.
"Magicka starts in the Origin Organ—your heart. Visualize it. A pulse. A tide. Focus."
Chris's eyes fluttered. His body shook violently. But in the chaos, in the rotting warmth of the Leviathan's stomach, he saw it.
A light inside him. Weak. Flickering.
His heart, surrounded by a sea of still, black water.
"Now, guide it. Push it. Move it through your veins. Toward the wound. Think of it like heat—burn it in your blood. This will hurt."
It did.
The moment he tried to move it, the Magicka pushed back, like a stubborn tide against his will. His blood vessels spasmed—burned—a fiery lance of pain shooting from his chest to his ribs.
Veins popped under his skin like overloaded wires.
He screamed. This time, he really screamed. A raw, feral cry.
"Good. Keep going. Burn through it. You want to live? Evolve."
Kelvin grabbed his wrist. "Holy shit, Chris—your veins are glowing—"
The blueish threads of Magicka, faint but real, lit up beneath his skin. They twisted around the wound like roots, curling into the gash, cauterizing edges, forcing blood to clot, boiling infection into steam.
The skin began to tighten. Slowly. Imperfectly. Crude healing—but it was working.
"This is the lowest tier of Magicka usage," the AI said. "Painful, inefficient, but sustainable. If you want to live longer than a day, you'll have to get better."
Chris lay back, twitching. His face was soaked. His shirt was torn. The blood pool around him was still large—but no longer growing.
Kelvin dropped beside him, exhausted.
"You—you f**king healed yourself."
Chris panted. "Didn't... feel like healing."
Kelvin laughed, though it was hollow. "You scared the shit out of me."
The Leviathan rumbled again.
A deep sound. Not from its throat, but from within its bowels. The walls vibrated. The bile-colored "sun" overhead flickered again, momentarily dimming. The acid rivers churned in the distance.
"I don't think this place sleeps," Kelvin muttered.
Chris looked up.
The sun wasn't just gas. It was moving.
Something was in it.
He shivered.
Kelvin reached over and handed him half the protein bar. "Eat. You need it."
Chris took it. Nibbled like a dying man.
He stared into the dim light of the Leviathan's stomach.
And for the first time in his life, he wondered—
What if this was only the beginning?