It’s fused. And it seems to have integrated part of her central nervous system. Alyssa, sitting nearby, clutched her head.
I hear voices in my head, not words, more like, commands. At that moment, Paul Davis arrived at Smith’s clinic. After watching the video, he spoke immediately.
That’s it. Johnson described at once, a microscopic organism that integrates with neural tissue and sensory receptors. It can learn.
It can grow. And, it can control the host. Is there any way to remove it? Paul sighed.
They tried surgical removal once. Three children died within ten minutes. What about Alyssa? She survived for six years.
Maybe, the implant she received was incomplete. It needed time. Smith stared at Paul, resolute.
Whatever it takes. I’m going to save that girl. That night, in the small guest room where Mrs. Teresa was housing Alyssa, Smith visited her.
Do you want to be free of it, Alyssa? More than anything. I don’t want to live as a cage for that thing anymore. Smith nodded.
Then trust me. We need more proof. We have to extract a tissue sample.
A sample? You mean, cut it out. Just a tiny part. It won’t damage your nerves.
Can you handle it? Alyssa took a deep breath. I can handle it. As long as, it loses control over me.
The next morning at the clinic, Smith performed a nasal endoscopic biopsy under local anesthesia. Alyssa lay still, her teeth clenching a towel. The camera went in as before.
A micro scalpel was activated. As soon as it touched the organism’s tissue, the screen glitched violently, and Alyssa jolted. Stop! Emily yelled.
Her heart rate spiking. Smith withdrew the scalpel but a red flash pulsed across the screen. It wasn’t from the camera light.
It was a bioluminescent reaction from the organism. The eye opened again. This time, it didn’t blink.
It stared back, deep, cold, unwavering. After the failed biopsy, Smith sat catching his breath, wiping sweat from his brow. It knows, it knows we’re trying to kill it.
Alyssa opened her eyes, tears running down her face. And it won’t let us. Smith sent the remaining tissue sample to the lab.
The preliminary results made his skin crawl. The cells weren’t human, nor were they purely parasitic. The DNA sequence contained synthetic biological code.
He whispered. This isn’t just a medical experiment. It’s a form of neurobiological weaponry.
His office was bathed in the cold glow of blue-white light. On the computer screen, streams of genetic data scrolled by. The tissue taken from Alyssa didn’t match any known biological structure.
Not parasitic. Not a mutation. This thing was engineered, Smith murmured.
Beside him, Dr. Paul Davis frowned. I’ve never seen an organism integrate directly into the nervous system without being rejected by the immune system. It’s like, it was designed to befriend the body.
Or control it, Smith replied, eyes locked on the screen. Paul slowly nodded. You think Martha knows? Knows? Smith’s jaw tightened.
She’s not just aware she was part of it. That night, Smith went to the city’s medical record archive. With the help of an old colleague Isabel Morgan, a records officer he got temporary access clearance.
Just one night, Michael. If they find out I helped you. Thank you, Isabel.
I’ll take full responsibility. Smith combed through treatment records from 2017, when Alyssa was six. The attending physician was listed as Dr. Richard Johnson.
The medical assistant, Martha Parker. Beneath it, a red annotation, experiment terminated. Patient sample failed.
Smith trembled. Failed. Then why is Alyssa still alive? Isabel stepped closer and pointed to an internal transfer form.
After the project was dissolved, Johnson retired, and Martha vanished from the staff list. She changed her name in the system and registered as Alyssa’s legal guardian, just three months after her father’s accident. Smith turned sharply.
That accident was murder to silence him. The next morning, Smith went to the school where Alyssa’s father had worked as a physics teacher. He met with the former principal, Mr. Matthew Rogers a wiry man in his 60s, his face serious and tight.
Alyssa’s father, Alan Wilson, was a good man, Rogers said. Dedicated, honest, always asking questions. Did he ever investigate anything, related to medical issues? Rogers nodded slowly.
One day, he came here with a stack of photocopied documents. He said someone had injected something strange into his daughter without consent. The hospital denied it, but he started gathering evidence.
Two weeks later, he died from a so-called slip-and-fall accident in the elevator. Smith clenched his fist. That wasn’t an accident.
I know. But no one dared investigate. Just a few days later, a woman named Martha suddenly declared herself the legal stepmother and was granted full custody of Alyssa.
In the small apartment where Ms. Teresa was temporarily sheltering her, Alyssa sat blankly by the window. Her eyes were dry there were no more tears left to cry. Teresa poured tea and sat beside her.
Did you sleep last night, sweetheart? No. It wouldn’t let me. It kept whispering inside my head, strange thoughts.
What kind of thoughts? It wants to stay. It hates the light. It hates scalpels.
It, enjoys my pain. Teresa gently squeezed her hand. You’re not some creature.
You’re a human being. And Dr. Smith is going to save you. Alyssa pressed her lips together.
But Martha, she knows something. I’m sure she’s more than just a stepmother. At the same time, Smith visited Martha under the pretense of reviewing medical results.
She opened the door with her usual composed posture, but her eyes betrayed tension. I thought you understood. I asked you to stop getting involved.
I just need to see her medication. What you’ve been giving Alyssa at night. Martha folded her arms.
That’s none of your concern. You’ve been giving her high-dose sleeping pills. One’s banned for minors.
She has insomnia. What was I supposed to do? And you’re violating my custody rights. Smith stepped closer, his voice low and sharp.
You’re not her real guardian. You were Johnson’s assistant. You implanted that thing in her nose.
You silenced her father. And now, you’re afraid the truth will come out. Martha smirked, but her eyes faltered.
You think you know everything. You’re wrong, doctor. You can’t imagine what’s living inside her.
I know it’s a synthetic organism. And I’ll expose all of it. No one will believe you.
And no one survives contact with the neural circuit project. That night, Smith video-called Paul. I need you to dig deeper into the neural circuit project.
I don’t believe it was ever really shut down. I think it’s still active just buried. Paul pulled up files on his screen.
You’re right. I just found a suspicious budget entry from the Department of Science in 2019. No description just the tag Johnson 4.0. Jesus Christ.
They never stopped. And Alyssa is the living proof. Alyssa sat writing in her journal at Teresa’s house.
Her handwriting shaky, the words uneven. It’s learning faster. Every time I’m scared, it gets stronger.
Every time I’m angry, it pulses like it’s comforting me. Sometimes I can’t tell if a thought is mine or it’s. I’m scared one day.
I’ll disappear. Late that night, Smith reviewed the endoscopy video again. Every time he re-watched it, the eye made his skin crawl.
This time, he paused the footage at the moment the eye opened widest. He increased the contrast. Suddenly, he saw a small network of blood vessels forming around the eye shaping what appeared to be secondary brain tissue.
He whispered. It’s growing its own brain. Chicago’s night air was colder than usual.
In the quiet apartment, Alyssa sat upright in bed, her face pale, eyes hollow. The wall clock read nearly 2 a.m., but she couldn’t sleep. Not because she feared Martha.
Not because of nightmares. But because, it was awake. I know you can hear me, Alyssa whispered, her voice cracked and dry.
You live inside me. There was no reply. But a dull pulse from her nasal bridge rose to her forehead like a gentle wave not exactly pain, more like something brushing deep within her mind.
I won’t let you control me. Then, a thought drifted through her mind clear as a spoken voice. We need each other.
Without me, you’re empty. Alyssa recoiled, clutching her head. No.
I’m me. I’m not your vessel. A knock came from outside her door.