Alyssa, are you okay? Teresa’s gentle voice floated in. I’m fine, just can’t sleep. Dr. Smith will be coming tomorrow.
Try to get some rest. Alyssa didn’t respond. Her throat was dry.
The itching in her nose returned but this time, it reached deep into her skull. Meanwhile, at the clinic, Dr. Smith placed an urgent call to the police. I need to report a case of child endangerment with life-threatening risks.
The victim’s name is Alyssa Wilson, 12 years old. The voice on the other end responded slowly. Do you have physical evidence, doctor? Yes.
Endoscopic footage reveals a living organism inside her nasal cavity. The child has been beaten, sedated, locked in dark closets. The stepmother is Martha Parker, former research assistant to Dr. Richard Johnson.
That sounds like a science fiction movie. It sounds real if you saw the wide-open eye inside that child’s brain. I’m not joking.
There was a pause. Then the officer’s voice softened. We’ll dispatch an emergency intervention unit.
Please send us the address. Martha had lost all composure. In her cold kitchen, she stirred a packet of white powder into a cup of hot milk.
On the table was a bottle labeled Midazolam with a red warning, not for use in children under 16. They’re not taking her, she muttered. Not when she’s this close to the final phase.
She opened her purse, pulled out a syringe, drew liquid from a small glass vial, and silently headed toward the room where Alyssa was staying. Teresa answered the door when Martha rang the bell. I’m here to take Alyssa home.
The doctor said she should rest in her own bed. It’s two in the morning, Mrs. Martha, Teresa frowned. I’m just worried about her.
And I have legal right to keep her here until morning, per the agreement with the police. You should leave. Martha smiled thinly.
Are you sure, you’ll live to see the morning? Before Teresa could react, Martha struck her with a sudden punch to the neck. She collapsed, unconscious. Martha stepped over her, entering the house like a shadow.
In the room, Alyssa was leaning against the wall when the door flew open. Get up, you little freak. Alyssa’s eyes widened.
She tried to stand. What did you do to Miss Teresa? She’ll sleep for a while. You’re not my mother.
Martha walked closer, sneering. You’re right. I’m not your mother.
I’ve been monitoring you since the experiment began. What experiment? The neural circuit project. Johnson and I implanted the organism in you when you were six.
You’re the only one who survived. Why, why me? Because you’re the child of a traitor Alan Wilson. Your father worked for the Department of Education.
He discovered the project and planned to expose it. So? I seduced him, married him, and made him believe you needed special treatment. Alyssa backed away, tears streaming.
You, you killed my father. Yes. And I’ll kill you too if you don’t shut up.
She pulled out the syringe and moved closer. Alyssa screamed. Help.
Somebody help me. Right then, the front door burst open. Officer Smith led a team of three officers in.
Police. Drop the syringe. Martha spun around, her face twisted with rage.
You’re too late. She plunged the needle into her own arm and collapsed to the floor, foaming at the mouth. Smith rushed to Alyssa.
Are you okay? Aye. I think so, she… injected herself. One officer confirmed.
It’s not a lethal dose. It’s an anticonvulsant. Likely a biochemical trigger response.
We’re taking her in. Alyssa was taken to the hospital. Throughout the entire ride, she repeated one sentence over and over.
You believe me now, don’t you? Smith held her hand. I don’t just believe you. I’m going to save you.
I promise. The wail of the ambulance echoed through the corridors of the University of Chicago Medical Center. Alyssa was rushed into the emergency room in a deep coma, her nose bleeding uncontrollably.
Every time a doctor wiped the blood, thick black mucus oozed out—neither pus nor blood, but reeking of rotting flesh. Blood pressure dropping fast. Irregular heartbeat.
Call Dr. Smith. And get the imaging team now. Smith came running, pulling on his coat as he called out.
Where is she? Nurse Emily stopped him. She’s undergoing an emergency CT scan. Smith, she might not survive if that thing reaches her brain.
Smith clenched his fists. We won’t let that happen. In the control room, the CT scan images slowly appeared.
The monitor revealed a root-like structure, tentacle-like, growing from the nasal cavity directly into the olfactory nerve, latching onto the base of the frontal lobe. What the hell, one doctor exclaimed. Smith froze.
He pointed to the screen. That’s not human tissue. That’s a living organism forming a neural connection with the brain.
Is it… alien, another doctor asked quietly. No. Man-made.
A banned experiment combining sensory neural tissue. Prohibited since 2017. Can we remove it? Smith took a deep breath.
We have to operate. And we have to do it now. At the Queens District Police Station, Martha sat handcuffed in the interrogation room.
Her face was pale, hair disheveled, but her eyes remained cold and defiant. Detective Rebecca Taylor sat across from her, placing three photos on the table, one of the endoscopic image of the organism in Alyssa’s nose, one of Martha’s personnel file from the Johnson Institute, and the third a copy of Alan Wilson’s death certificate. You know what we have, don’t you? Martha stayed silent.
Rebecca pushed the endoscopic image closer. This is the eye of the biological organism inside Alyssa’s nasal cavity the child you implanted with it when she was only six. Martha smirked faintly.
You call it an organism? No. It’s an evolutionary structure. You admit you worked with Johnson.
I don’t deny it. And you were romantically involved with Alyssa’s father, before killing him. Silence.
Rebecca leaned forward on the table. I don’t need a confession. Dr. Smith’s video, archived records, and testimony from your former colleagues are enough to charge you with child abuse, premeditated murder, and conducting illegal biological experiments.
Martha spoke slowly, eyes glassy. You don’t understand. If Alyssa survives, she’ll become the first neural interface of the human species.
You just killed the future. Rebecca smirked. No.
We’re saving a child from the monster you helped create. In the operating room, Alyssa lay still, her skin pale as snow. Her heart rate unstable.
Dr. Smith stood over the table, across from Dr. Samuel Harris, head of neurosurgery. Are you sure, Michael? If we touch the olfactory route wrong. We’ve waited long enough.
It’s spreading to the frontal lobe. If we don’t remove it now, it will take over her nervous system. Then let’s begin.
The surgery lasted six hours. Smith led the operation. Every incision calculated, every movement measured.
The organism clung to her neural tissue like tentacles. Each attempt to peel it off carried the risk of cerebral hemorrhage. Midway through, Alyssa’s heart rate flatlined.
Cardiac arrest. Get the defibrillator, someone shouted. Samuel yelled.
We can’t stop now. Part of the eye has breached the brain base. Smith shouted.
Clear. Three, two, one, shock. Beep.
The monitor jumped. Alyssa’s heart resumed beating. The team exhaled in relief.
Once the organism was fully removed, Smith sealed it in a glass containment jar. Inside, the black mass with its unblinking eye still moved watching everyone in the room as if it were still alive. Emily shivered.
It, it’s watching us. Smith shook his head. No.
It’s cut off from her nervous system. Now it’s just a lifeless body. Alyssa was transferred to recovery.
Nurses surrounded her, machines tracking every vital sign. Smith sat beside her, gently holding her small hand. An hour later, Alyssa stirred and slowly opened her eyes.
Doctor. Alyssa, can you hear me? Is it, still there? Smith smiled softly. It’s gone.
You’re free now. Two days later, media across the United States exploded. Major headlines in the New York Times, The Washington Post, and Chicago Tribune read.
Neural Parasite, A Girl Survives Six Years of Illegal Experimentation. Martha Parker, Johnson Project Assistant, Arrested on Multiple Felony Charges. Dr. Michael Smith, who discovered living organism in child’s nasal cavity, nominated for Lasker Award for Medical Excellence.
At the police station, Martha sat alone in her cell. Cold white light cast shadows over her sunken face, her eyes distant. A young female officer walked in and handed her a folded newspaper.
Hot off the press. Dr. Smith just received legal guardianship of Alyssa. The girl’s recovering well.
Martha didn’t respond. The officer added. You lost.
Martha gave a dry laugh and whispered. You’ve only cut off its tail. At the hospital, Alyssa sat up in bed, holding Dr. Smith’s hand.
Do you still feel it? No. Just, emptiness. But lighter.
Still, strange. You’re the strongest person I’ve ever met. And now, you get to start over.
Alyssa smiled, her eyes glowing with life. Doctor. I don’t want to just be a survivor.
I want to understand. I want to study it. I want to, study neuroscience.
Smith went quiet for a few seconds, then smiled warmly. Then I’ll help you. No matter what.
Six years later. At a small plaza across from the National Institute of Neuroscience in San Francisco, the soft breeze of spring danced in the air. The sun glinted on Alyssa’s chestnut hair now 18, tall, confident, with bright, determined eyes.