But when he leaned closer to the mirror, fogging slightly from the steam, he froze. Beneath his tongue, pooling unnaturally, was a substance black as ink—opaque, viscous, and entirely alien.
It simply existed, heavy and unnatural, a liquid foreign to a living human body. His heart raced.
Trembling, he spat into the sink and rinsed vigorously, yet no amount of water seemed to diminish its presence.
Despite rising panic, pride and embarrassment held him silent, and he left for work, convincing himself he was overreacting.
But the first day passed, and with it came the first visible signs of a far more sinister problem.
In the late afternoon, Pavel noticed the skin on his shins beginning to peel in thin, dry sheets, almost like the surface of weathered paint.
He touched it lightly; there was no pain, only a tingling sensation, cold and electric under his fingertips.
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