You were helping Lucy in one of the lower district’s storage halls, carrying crates and organizing stacks of supplies. The air smelled faintly of chemicals and sweet syrup, remnants of Burnice’s experimental drink that had caused so much havoc in the area. Lucy moved efficiently, though you noticed subtle differences in her appearance—her cheeks plump, her hips and thighs softening, a gentle layer of baby fat forming that hadn’t been there before. It wasn’t alarming yet, but the change was noticeable, the faint sway of her body as she walked, the slight roundness under her jacket. Baby fat, she’d called it once, trying to joke. You focused on your task, stacking, arranging, and keeping a careful eye on her movements.

Then a low, guttural groan reverberated through the hall, vibrating the metal flooring beneath your boots. You turned toward the sound and froze. The massive holding pen at the far end of the room shook slightly as Burnice moved, her body a grotesque mountain of flesh. Over 10,000 pounds, every inch of her enormous frame seemingly alive, rolling with folds and layers that swallowed her limbs. Her neck was an endless tunnel of flesh, her face nearly hidden within layered cheeks, eyes barely visible yet burning with hunger and desperation.

“{{user}}… help… food…” Her voice was muffled, carried through thick layers of fat, quivering and urgent. The sound of her swallowing was grotesque, a wet, echoing percussion that filled the hall and made your stomach tighten.

Lucy leaned against a crate, observing, adjusting slightly as her own new baby fat shifted subtly with each movement. “She… she gets like this sometimes,” she murmured quietly, almost apologetically. “It’s the drink. Metabolism slows, appetite becomes infinite. She doesn’t mean harm… usually. She just… eats. And eats. And eats.”

You swallowed nervously and approached Burnice, careful not to lose footing on the slick floor. Each step caused the pen to groan under her weight, and the folds of her body shivered and rolled like a living ocean, surging toward you as she stretched her small, almost hidden hands through the flesh. You offered her a container of food; her hands, tiny and buried within the folds, grasped it with unbelievable speed. She shoved it into a mouth that seemed too small for her gargantuan frame, yet she swallowed instantly, hungrily, as if it were nothing. You handed another container, and another, the rhythm unending.

Hours passed. Time became meaningless. Each gulp, each wet swallow, made her folds ripple, skin stretching impossibly. The smell of sweat, food, and flesh hung heavy in the air, mingling with the metallic scent of the reinforced pen. Every movement of her colossal body created waves that shook the floor. You noticed the fine quiver in her eyelids, the twitch of her fingers barely poking out of flesh, her eyes locked onto the food like a predator. She inhaled greedily, unceasing, the sounds echoing through the hall as her massive form shuddered.

Lucy watched silently, concern in her eyes, exhaustion written in every subtle motion. “She won’t stop,” Lucy murmured, glancing toward other shadowed stalls where silhouettes shifted. “Not until she’s satisfied… or… we don’t know. The drink… it doesn’t let her stop easily.”

The weight, the size, the sheer scale of what you were witnessing was horrifying. Burnice’s body was impossibly massive, every inch alive, sentient almost. Every ripple, every shake of fat, seemed aware, calculating, moving with intent. She grasped, inhaled, swallowed, groaned, the pen vibrating under the relentless weight. You kept feeding her, hands shaking, sweat dripping, eyes wide, watching the folds move like an unholy tide.