Chapter Two: The Troubled Girl

I woke up with the taste of blood in my mouth and the slow, rhythmic drip of rainwater echoing in my ears. My skull throbbed, a deep, pulsing pain like someone had taken a hammer to the inside of my head. I groaned, rolling onto my side, forcing my eyes open.

Spasma stood a few feet away, coat unbuttoned, one hand resting inside one of his many hidden pockets. He wasn’t looking at me. His entire body was tense, coiled like a spring ready to snap.

I followed his gaze.

And there she was.

Helena Smith.

Or… whatever was left of her.

She still looked like herself, at least at first glance. The same dark brown hair, loosely tied back with strands falling around her face. The same deep hazel eyes, once sharp and questioning—except now, there was something wrong about them. Glassy. Hollow. A black, oily sheen pulsed in her pupils, like ink spreading through water.

Her outfit was untouched. A faded oversized graphic tee, a baggy cardigan draped loosely over her shoulders, and high-waisted jeans with just the right amount of wear and tear. Chunky sneakers, the laces lazily tied. It was her, but it wasn’t.

Because the long sleeves of her cardigan were moving.

Slowly. Almost breathing.

Something coiled underneath the fabric, twisting in slow, hypnotic patterns. The way it shifted, pressing against the material like something alive, made my stomach churn.

Spasma didn’t move. 

His fingers twitched inside his coat pocket, but his face stayed frozen in that eerie half-grin of his. I could tell he was itching to do something—pull out some weird weapon or gadget—but he was waiting. Watching.

I forced myself to sit up, rubbing the back of my head. The alley spun for a second before settling.

“Helena,” I said, keeping my voice level. “We’re here to take you home.”

Her grin didn’t falter. “Home?”

She took a slow step forward.

“There’s no home left,” she whispered.

I got to my feet. Spasma finally spoke.

“What happened to you, Helena?” His voice was low, measured. He took a small step to the left, subtly positioning himself for a better angle. “We heard you were looking into some weird disappearances. Thought maybe you were onto something.”

She cocked her head slightly, studying us, her lips curling into a sharp, unnatural grin.

“You shouldn’t have come,” she said.

The voice was hers. Almost.

There was something layered underneath. Something else speaking with her.

Helena blinked. The movement was delayed, like her body had to remember how to do it.

“I was onto something,” she murmured.

Then she lifted her right hand.

And her sleeve peeled back on its own. I had expected some kind of wound. Some visible infection. Something that explained the way her veins pulsed black beneath her skin.

But I wasn’t ready for what I saw.

Her arm wasn’t just her arm anymore.  The skin had split open along the forearm, exposing something else underneath. Tendons fused with something organic, something not human. Black, rope-like tendrils coiled and pulsed in the open gap of her flesh, weaving through her muscles like veins that had grown too large, too hungry. The tendrils twitched as if responding to the air itself.

She turned her palm toward me, fingers slowly curling.

I heard something shift inside her wrist. A wet, sickening pop.

The tendrils suddenly lashed outward, too fast—whipping toward me like living wires.

I barely had time to move.

I threw myself backward, the tendrils slicing through the air where my head had been a second ago. They whipped forward again, snapping against the brick wall behind me with a sound like a cracking whip.

“Jesus—” 

Spasma moved first.

His hand shot out of his coat, and in a single motion, he clicked something—his compact stun baton, a small black cylinder that snapped to full length with a burst of blue electricity.

“Alright,” Spasma muttered. “That’s new.”

Helena lunged.

She moved wrong. Too smooth. Too fluid. Like her body didn’t care about joints or balance anymore. The tendrils from her arm lashed out again, aiming straight for Spasma’s head.

He ducked. Rolled.

Came up swinging.

The stun baton cracked against her arm, sending a burst of blue sparks up her sleeve. Her body seized, her movements glitching—stuttering. The tendrils jerked back, twitching violently, but she didn’t fall.

She barely flinched.

Instead, she turned her gaze on Spasma.

And smiled.

“You think that hurts?”

Her left sleeve peeled back, revealing another mass of tendrils coiling down her other arm.

Then she moved again.

I barely saw it.

One second, she was standing still.

The next, she was right in front of Spasma.

The tendrils shot forward, wrapping around his wrist, locking onto his baton. The weapon short-circuited instantly, sparks bursting from its tip as the organic tendrils squeezed.

Spasma let out a sharp breath—not pain. Just mild inconvenience.

Then he grinned.

“Didn’t think I’d need the big guns for this,” he muttered.

He let go of the baton. Reached into his coat.

Helena’s head snapped toward me.

“Douglass.”

The voice wasn’t hers anymore.

It was layered.

Multiple voices.

Something else was speaking through her now.

“You don’t understand what’s coming.”

The tendrils on her arms tightened.

“Let me show you.”

She lunged again.

This time, straight for me.