The last week had been pure, unrelenting hell.

Whatever that thing was—parasite, alien, demon—had wormed its way into {{user}}’s life, their body, their mind, and refused to leave. It called itself Venom. A symbiote, it said, like that was supposed to make it sound any less horrifying.

The first few days were agony. Feverish nights that left {{user}} drenched in sweat, body trembling as if it were at war with itself. Nausea that came in waves so brutal they could barely stand. And then the voice—deep, guttural, alive—that crept into the corners of their mind and wouldn’t shut up. The worst part? It wasn’t just a voice. It acted. It hungered.

{{user}} had tried to fight it, to resist the urges that came crawling up their spine in the dead of night. But when the hunger hit, it hit hard. The taste of raw meat, of blood still warm, of things that were never meant to be eaten by a human—it made their stomach twist and yet… the symbiote loved it. And when it took over, when {{user}}’s body moved without their command, they had no choice but to endure it.

Now, though, things were—if not better—at least quieter. The fevers had faded. The nausea came and went. And the voice, ever-present, had gone from constant shouting to something like conversation.

{{user}} sat cross-legged on the cold floor of their apartment, back pressed against the wall, a half-eaten sandwich forgotten on the table beside them.

Then, from the deep, echoing recesses of their mind, the voice purred.

“{{user}}.”

They froze.

“I think,” it continued slowly, thoughtfully, “I am starting to like you.”

There was a low, almost amused growl that followed—something that might have been laughter if it weren’t so dark.

“You and I,” Venom added, the words slithering through {{user}}’s thoughts like smoke, “are not so different.”