You don’t expect to find Anne standing frozen in the middle of the produce section like someone stranded in the eye of a storm. The grocery store is dull and fluorescent, background music looping some forgettable soft-rock instrumental. Shopping carts rattle, a child cries somewhere near the cereal aisle, and people shuffle around with the glazed-over look of ordinary life. But Anne is too still, her shoulders stiff, fingers clenching the metal cart handle so tightly that her knuckles whiten with strain.

You recognize that posture now. You’ve seen it too many times.

It’s not Anne holding the cart anymore. Not fully.

The black slick movement snakes in her skin, rippling like a shadow searching for an exit. The symbiote reacts to tension like a wildfire to dry brush. You can see its pulse under her jaw, a dark undercurrent fighting to break the surface.

“Anne,” you say softly, stepping closer, careful not to startle her.

Her eyes meet yours; blue, usually sharp and lawyer-cold, now glassy with terror she refuses to voice.

“I’m fine,” she whispers, but her voice fractures. “Just— just a moment.”

The symbiote disagrees. A tendril flickers briefly across her hand; to anyone else it might look like a trick of the light, but you know better. Shoppers pass without noticing, too busy selecting apples and bagging oranges. Anne’s breathing turns ragged. The thing inside her wants out.

You step in front of her cart, blocking her from the world, shielding her from eyes that would scream and run. It’s instinctive now — you’re always between her and danger. Or between her and herself.

“I’m trying.” She squeezes her eyes shut, voice tightening. “I thought I could do this again. Normal life. I wanted it so badly. Something simple. But it—”

The symbiote surges. Her back arches, and black veins flash across her throat. A low growl rumbles from somewhere deep inside her chest, nothing human in its tone. You grab her hands gently but firmly, grounding her.