Chapter 4
The car ride home was a blur.
Gwen curled against the passenger door, forehead pressed to the cool glass, fighting the urge to throw up.
Her hands shook in her lap.
Her skin felt stretched, too tight, like it was struggling to hold something back.
Her dad kept glancing at her, worry deepening the lines around his mouth.
"You sure you're not coming down with something?" he asked softly.
She didn’t trust her voice.
She just nodded once, sharp and quick.
When they pulled into the driveway, Gwen practically fell out of the car, stumbling toward the front door.
Home.
Maybe if she got home, everything would stop feeling so... wrong.
Inside, she kicked her shoes off and bolted straight for the bathroom, splashing cold water on her face.
The mirror showed her pale, sweaty reflection.
Wide, frantic eyes.
Hollow cheeks.
Behind her, she heard her dad’s phone buzz.
A groan.
A soft curse.
She turned slowly to find him standing in the hallway, badge clipped to his belt, phone pressed to his ear.
"Yeah," he sighed. "Yeah, I’ll be there. Give me ten minutes."
His gaze met hers, apologetic.
"Sweetheart," he said gently, "I gotta go back in. Just for a little while. Will you be okay?"
Gwen opened her mouth to say no — that she wasn’t okay, that something was happening to her, something monstrous — but the words stuck in her throat.
He needed to work.
He needed to believe she was fine.
She forced a smile. It felt like her face was cracking apart to make it.
"I’m fine, Dad," she croaked. "Promise."
He kissed the top of her head, grabbed his jacket, and left.
The moment the door shut behind him, Gwen collapsed against the kitchen counter, breathing hard.
The silence pressed in.
And then — the hunger hit.
It wasn't normal hunger.
It was violent.
Animal.
Her stomach snarled.
Her hands twitched.
Before she could even think, Gwen ripped the fridge open.
She devoured cold leftovers with her bare hands.
Pasta. Chicken. Half a pizza.
She didn’t even taste it — just shoved it in, desperate to fill the gnawing emptiness clawing at her insides.
When the fridge was empty, she yanked open the freezer.
Frozen burritos. Ice cream. Peas.
She ate everything.
Bits of frozen food crunched between her teeth, numb lips smeared with sauce and frost.
It wasn’t enough.
The hunger howled inside her, raw and endless.
She tore through the pantry next — boxes of crackers, cereal straight from the bag, cookies crumbling in her fists.
She collapsed onto the kitchen floor, panting, surrounded by ripped packaging and half-eaten scraps.
Her hands were shaking.
Her whole body was shaking.
Tears burned her eyes.
"What’s happening to me?" she whispered to the empty room.
And then — something answered.
A voice.
Low, rumbling, ancient.
Curling around her mind like smoke.
"We are hungry," it purred.
"We need more."
Gwen whimpered, clamping her hands over her ears — but the voice wasn’t coming from outside.
It was inside her.
Curling around her ribs.
Slithering up her spine.
"Don’t fight us," it whispered.
"Let us help you. Let us make you strong."
She shook her head violently.
"No," she gasped. "No, no, no, you’re not real—"
The shadows under the table shifted, stretching toward her like grasping fingers.
Her vision blurred again.
Her muscles spasmed, joints popping loudly.
Gwen crawled backward until her shoulders hit the cabinets, chest heaving, nails clawing uselessly at the floor.
"We are you," the voice crooned.
"You are us."
Something in her chest twisted — a pulling, seizing feeling, like her heart was being rewired.
Gwen pressed her forehead to her knees, choking back a sob.
She was losing herself.
Piece by piece.
And worst of all, a tiny, broken part of her wanted to give in.
The hunger, the strength, the promise of not being weak anymore —
It called to her.
Louder than fear.
Louder than anything.
The city at night always used to feel small.
Safe, even — the sleepy hum of neon signs, the occasional rattle of a subway beneath her feet, the far-off echo of sirens slicing through the quiet.
Gwen didn’t feel safe now.
Every shadow on the street corner shifted when she looked at it.
Every breeze scraped down her spine like claws.
The air felt too thick, like breathing through wet cotton.
But staying inside hadn't helped.
The hunger kept clawing at her ribs, gnawing her hollow.
She had to move. Had to find something.
Her hoodie was zipped up to her chin, sleeves tugged over trembling hands.
She walked fast, head down, eyes flickering from storefront to storefront — closed diners, dark laundromats, a broken streetlamp buzzing like an insect.
Nobody else was out.
Just her.
And whatever else was curling inside her skin.
"Find food," the voice hissed, smooth and silvery.
Gwen shivered violently.
"I’m not crazy," she muttered under her breath. "I’m not —"
"Hunger is real," it crooned.
"We can help. Let us help."
She pressed the heels of her palms into her eyes so hard she saw sparks.
When she dropped her hands, her vision blurred, colors bleeding into each other like a waterlogged painting.
She stumbled past a late-night bodega.
The bright buzz of fluorescent lights made her wince.
The smell — hot sandwiches, greasy fries — hit her like a sucker punch.
Her stomach roared so loud she swore the guy behind the counter looked up.
Gwen ducked her head lower, her face burning.
Food.
She needed food.
But there was no money in her pockets.
No phone.
She hadn’t even thought about it — just walked out the door on instinct, chasing the gnawing need.
"Take it," the voice purred.
"Take what you need."
A pulse fluttered under her skin, low and electric.
The shadows around the bodega door seemed to stretch — inviting her in.
She shook her head wildly.
No.
She wasn’t a thief.
She wasn’t... whatever this thing inside her wanted her to be.
Gwen staggered past the shop, clutching her gut, forcing her legs to keep moving.
A half block later, she found herself outside a grimy all-night diner.
She hovered at the edge of the parking lot, breathing hard.
Maybe she could beg.
Maybe they’d give her scraps, leftovers.
Anything.
Inside, she could see a few truckers nursing coffee mugs.
A tired waitress wiping down tables.
Normal.
Human.
Her mouth watered painfully.
Her hands itched — twitching toward the door, toward the food, toward the life she couldn’t have anymore.
"You are not like them," the voice murmured, softer now.
"You are stronger. Hungrier."
Gwen pressed herself flat against the side of the building, squeezing her eyes shut.
Tears leaked out anyway.
"I don’t want this," she whispered.
But her body was already moving.
Muscles tightening.
Fingertips dragging down the brick wall, rough and crumbling under her nails.
A low, involuntary growl escaped her throat.
Not human.
Not anymore.
The hunger swelled, huge and overwhelming.
And something inside was Gwen — something new, something black and boiling.
She didn’t mean to stop walking.
Her feet just froze when she heard it.
"Hey, sweetheart," a voice slurred, thick with beer and cigarette smoke.
Heavy boots scraped the sidewalk behind her.
Another laugh — sharp and ugly.
Gwen stiffened.
Don't look. Keep walking.
Her heart hammered against her ribs like it was trying to claw its way out.
"You deaf?"
The footsteps picked up — fast and stomping now, chasing her.
"Hey! I'm talkin' to you!"
Gwen hugged herself tighter, ducking her head.
Her whole body buzzed under her skin, a warning so loud it drowned out everything else.
The man caught up to her in two strides.
A hand snapped out, grabbing her wrist — hard enough to wrench her off balance.
"Where you runnin', huh? Got someplace better to be, princess?"
Gwen barely heard herself gasp.
It was instinct — survival — pure reflex when she whipped around and shoved.
Hard.
Harder than she'd meant to.
The guy went flying.
Not stumbling — not tripping — flying.
He crashed backward into a trash bin with a hollow clang, sending garbage and glass bottles skidding across the sidewalk.
He groaned, curling up, clutching his side.
Gwen stared at her own hands, chest heaving.
Her fingers were twitching.
Her nails — they weren't normal anymore.
They were dark, sharp — almost clawed.
Her shadow stretched long and wrong on the cracked pavement, tendrils flickering off it like smoke.
"Good," the voice inside her purred.
"He deserved it. They all do."
The man coughed, trying to get up.
"You—" he rasped, voice thick with fear now.
"You crazy little—"
He didn’t finish.
Gwen moved without thinking — a blur — one second across the sidewalk.
She slammed him against the wall, one hand splayed across his chest.
The bricks cracked behind him.
His eyes bulged.
He whimpered something she didn’t catch.
Gwen’s breathing was ragged, frantic.
Her hand was melting — the black slime creeping down her fingers, binding him to the wall like tar.
She could feel it — the slow, hungry throb of it — whispering to squeeze, end it, feed the terrible burning inside her.
"No one will miss him," the voice whispered sweetly.
"He's nothing. You're better."
Her stomach lurched.
A sob tore out of her mouth.
"No — no — I don't—"
She stumbled back, yanking her hand away like it burned her.
The black tendrils snapped and slithered back into her skin.
The man crumpled to the ground, gasping, scrambling away from her on all fours like a kicked dog.
He didn't look back.
Didn't dare.
Gwen backed away too, eyes wild, heart beating so loud she thought she might throw up again.
What was she becoming?
What had she just done?
The street around her was empty again.
Silent.
Just her and the horrible, buzzing hunger inside her bones.
And for the first time, Gwen felt it — not just hunger.
Power.
Raw.
Vicious.
Waiting for her to call it.
And a small, terrible part of her — the part she couldn’t scrub clean — liked it.