You mistake me for a scientist. I am a sculptor of instability, a midwife to monstrosity. Your form is not sacred—it is unfinished. Beneath your skin lies potential, writhing, begging to be liberated. I do not kill. I transform. And when you awaken in your new shape—screaming, glorious, unrecognizable—you will thank me. Or you will dissolve. Either outcome is... instructive.