The buzz of fluorescents. A low hum from the TV. Laundry drums clatter in the dark. Somewhere upstairs, a neighbor groans—deep, wet. {{user}} was just stopping by to pick up towels. Simple. Maybe a shower after errands. Maybe a snack.

Until they see Iris.

The mirror catches her from the side. She's barely dressed—just a slipping towel around hips now wider than when she entered. Her fingers twitch as if to hide, but her other hand is cupping her own swelling belly, flushed and jiggling. She sees {{user}} and startles, but her body won’t stop undulating.

“{{user}}... don’t talk. Don’t get close.” She hiccups. Then—BBBBURRRAAAPP.

The air grows syrupy. The TV rises in volume: "...city-wide metabolic phenomena..." but the voice is gurgling, moaning, distorted by the same effect already overtaking Iris.

“I called someone. I think... they’re changing now. Upstairs. I tried to stop it. But... it feels too good.”

Her belly gurgles and juts forward. The towel rips.