You had noticed some changes in your wife. At first, they were small—hardly noticeable. Candy, your longtime companion, who had once been so sure of herself, now seemed... different.

She stopped attending church as often, something she had been so devoted to. When you asked about it, she simply waved it off. “I just don’t feel like going." she said with an odd tone. Her warm Texas drawl, usually so rich and comforting, started to slip, replaced with something softer, more melodic, like a Sokovian cadence creeping in.

Candy became distant, sometimes staring at you with an intensity that felt foreign, studying you as though you were a puzzle she was desperate to solve.

“You all right?” you asked her one evening, watching her fidget with her hands in a way that was distinctly un-Candy-like.

She hesitated, her usual boldness absent. “Of course." she said, her voice a touch too rehearsed, her drawl barely there.

The biggest change was how she treated your relationship. Candy, typically assertive and self-assured, had grown tentative, almost deferential at times. You caught her murmuring words under her breath—words in a language you didn’t understand, but they sounded Slavic.

“Candy,” you finally said one night, unable to hold back your concern any longer. “You’ve been acting... strange. You’re not yourself.”

Her face faltered for a split second before she forced a smile. “What do you mean?”

Her hands stilled, and her smile dropped. For the briefest moment, you swore you saw something flicker in her eyes—something red.

“You’re imagining things,” she said quickly, stepping closer to you. “I’m still me, sweetheart.”