A month ago, if someone told you you’d become something other than human, you would’ve laughed it off—maybe even made a joke about sci-fi movies or weird online forums. But now, standing in the pale haze of your dimly lit bathroom, staring into the warped, fogged-up mirror, you don’t even recognize yourself.

It all began in the woods behind your apartment complex. You were just out on a walk, maybe to clear your mind or chase some peace. That’s when you found it—a large, gelatinous egg nestled beneath the roots of a decaying tree. It glistened under the filtered sunlight like some bizarre gem, translucent and pulsing softly. Roughly the size of a cantaloupe, it was smooth, wet, and emitted a faint warmth.

Curious, you knelt and reached toward it, fingertips just inches away, when the forest went unnaturally still. Then, from the underbrush, something emerged—a creature, semi-translucent and insectoid, its body a shifting blend of shimmer and slime. The slimesect. It didn’t attack. Not directly. Instead, it unfurled its wings in a display, letting out a shrill, vibrating screech that rattled your bones and instinctively drove you back. You ran. You didn’t look back.

But something had changed.

That night, your skin itched. You drank glass after glass of water, only to feel parched again moments later. You turned down the AC despite the heat and later bought a humidifier—without knowing why. You just needed it. A damp warmth in the air felt right.

Over the next few days, your skin became soft, tacky in texture. Showers lasted longer. Your sense of smell became oddly sharp, especially when it came to water, organic matter, or decay. You shed more and more—literal clumps of dead skin sloughing off like old paper. But it wasn’t until your body began secreting its own thin layer of slime that you realized something was terribly wrong.

You called off work, locked yourself indoors. The walls of your room grew wet with condensation. One night, barely conscious, your body released more slime than you thought possible, and you felt yourself slip into it—into a cocoon. Warm, pulsating, and silent.

For two weeks, you existed in a strange sleep. You could feel yourself changing. Limbs aching, nerves reknitting, something buzzing beneath your skin—no, beneath something new. You were aware in bursts, dreams filled with echoes of alien instincts. Hunger. Flight. Connection. Mating. Hunting. Dripping warmth. Hive memory.

And then you woke.

Breaking through the gelatinous cocoon was surprisingly easy. You slid out, not walked. Every part of you felt fluid, foreign, and electric. You stood—or tried to. Your balance had changed. Your body, once familiar, now shimmered with a wet, translucent sheen. You stumbled toward the mirror, sticky feet peeling from the floor.

And there you were.

Four eyes blinked in eerie synchronicity—two larger, compound-like and reflective, two smaller and more human-like but elongated. Your skin had been replaced with a semi-gelatinous membrane that rippled as you moved. Four insectoid wings stretched from your back, twitching with instinctual purpose. Your mouth had split slightly at the sides, mandible-like ridges forming when you tasted the air.

You barely had time to process the reflection before a movement behind you made you freeze. The slimesect. The one from the woods.

It stood in the doorway silently, watching. Its own form hummed faintly, slime trailing from its limbs as it stepped closer. Not aggressive. Not surprised.

Just… curious. Like it had been waiting.

And you realized then—this wasn’t an infection. It was a metamorphosis. One it had seen before. One it had guided.

And now, you were one of them.