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 did not smell metallic, nor did it carry the familiar coppery tang of blood. Nor was it the decayed aroma of food stuck between teeth.
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.
By the second day, the peeling progressed. First, the ankles, then the knees, and eventually his thighs.
Each morning, he would stand in front of the mirror, heart hammering, as he watched his once-healthy skin take on a brittle, almost charred appearance.
Panic began to gnaw at his composure, but he attempted to rationalize: perhaps an allergic reaction, a vitamin deficiency, or even an unusual infection.
Meanwhile, the black substance in his mouth intensified. Each morning it was thicker, darker, and more tenacious, clinging to his tongue and teeth.
By the fifth day, it had left stains on his pillow. That night, the reality of his situation broke through denial. Trembling, he called for medical assistance.
At the hospital, his symptoms prompted immediate concern. Nurses and technicians exchanged furtive glances; doctors whispered as they consulted one another.
Blood tests were taken, swabs analyzed, and scans ordered. The anxiety of the unknown—the silence that stretched on for two days—was almost unbearable.
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