His whole body was itching—he thought it was an allergy.
At first, it was just a faint tingling on his arms. Barely noticeable. He scratched absentmindedly while scrolling through his phone, thinking it was just dry skin or maybe a new detergent. But within minutes, the sensation spread—first his chest, then his back, then crawling up his neck like a wave of invisible ants.
By the time he made it to the bathroom, he could see the red blotches forming across his skin in angry patches. His first thought? An allergy. Maybe the shrimp at lunch. Or that old jacket he’d pulled from the closet for the first time in months. He’d always been sensitive to dust.
Rummaging through the medicine cabinet, he found some antihistamines and popped two without even checking the expiration date. Cold water splashed against his face and arms, offering fleeting relief. But the itch persisted, growing deeper—almost under the skin now, like something writhing beneath the surface.
He tried not to panic.
He sat on the edge of his bed, legs bouncing, hands twitching against his sides. His mind raced through possibilities. Was it stress? He’d been under a lot lately. Maybe it was psychosomatic. Or maybe—his stomach dropped—it was something worse. A reaction to a medication? A venomous insect bite he hadn’t noticed?
The itching intensified.
He stripped off his shirt, then his pants, desperate for relief. His skin was red and raw in places where he’d scratched too hard. He caught his reflection in the mirror: eyes wide, breath shallow. This was not normal.
A trip to the emergency room was starting to seem inevitable. He grabbed his phone to call someone—anyone—but then he froze. A sharp pain, like a sting, flared on his left shoulder blade. Twisting awkwardly to look, he caught a glimpse of something dark beneath the skin. Moving.
His breath caught.
It wasn’t an allergy.
His body went cold with realization, drowning out the itch for a second. Whatever was causing this, it was inside him now.