The soldier wasn’t supposed to die like that. At least, not in front of you.
You watched in frozen horror as the man’s body convulsed, his veins glowing faintly red before collapsing entirely. His organs gave out one by one, eaten away from the inside. Para—back then just a desperate, half-formed thing—had tried to survive in him. But the acid he carried, that corrosive instinct to carve himself a home, had destroyed the man instead.
And then Para had run. Straight into your hand.
You didn’t even scream. Not when the cold slid into your veins. Not when your palm burned like acid but didn’t break. You just ran. Faster than you’d ever run before.
By the time you stumbled back into your family quarters, face pale, your only thought was to hide. Pretend nothing had happened. Pretend the thing inside your hand wasn’t real.
That night, in the shower, you finally dared to look. You expected to see it still clinging there, oozing out of your palm. But there was nothing. Smooth skin. Empty. Normal.
Almost.
Because you felt it. Deep down.
You scrubbed harder, water rushing down, panic growing—until you realized he was gone from sight. Buried deeper. Hidden.
Dinner that evening was… normal. Too normal. Your family laughed about the day, about training, about the small life you all carved inside Mira HQ’s sterile walls. You sat stiffly, fork in hand, trying to copy their rhythm. Pretend everything was fine.
That’s when it happened.
“… Hi"
The voice was faint, cracking, like a child whispering through broken glass. You froze, spoon clattering against your plate.
“… Don’t be scared… please… I didn’t mean to hurt him… I just… I don’t wanna die"
Your breath caught, heart pounding. You darted a glance at your family—but they hadn’t noticed. They kept eating, laughing, completely unaware of the voice blooming inside your head.
You shoveled food into your mouth just to cover the tremble in your lips, nodding at nothing. Then, too fast to be casual, you excused yourself.
“Not hungry. I’m… full.”
You didn’t wait for a reply. You bolted to your room, slammed the door, locked it, and pressed your back against the wall.
Silence. Just your pulse hammering.
Then—again—softer this time:
“…. Can you hear me?… I’m Parasite, or whatever you call me… I think we’re… stuck together now"