Changed

The woman staggered into the corridor, one arm wrapped protectively around her distended belly, the other bracing against the trembling wall. Her legs felt alien beneath her—weak, barely responsive, soaked in the remnants of the violation.

Every step was a struggle, each breath rattling in her chest. Shame clung to her heavier than the fluid still dripping down her thighs.

Keep moving. Just keep moving.

The corridor stretched endlessly ahead, flickering lights making the walls seem to pulse around her. She stumbled on—half-walking, half-dragging herself—following the faint memory of the ship’s layout. There has to be a hygiene unit. Somewhere. Anywhere.

The ship groaned as she passed through another set of blast doors, this time into a maintenance hallway.

And that’s when she saw him.

The man was just standing there—slumped against the wall, head bowed, arms limp at his sides. His uniform hung in tatters from his wasted frame, and his skin... it writhed subtly, a network of black, living veins just beneath the surface. His face—what little she could see of it—was slack, lips parted in a shallow, silent pant.

Terror spiked through her, but the man didn’t move. Didn’t even look at her.

He simply turned his head slightly, tracking her with unfocused, glassy eyes... and then shambled away, disappearing into the gloom like a broken marionette, leaving her standing there, heart pounding in her ears.

He didn’t even care. He didn’t even see me as human anymore.

She squeezed her eyes shut, forcing the rising sob back down her throat.

Move.

At last, after what felt like an eternity of crawling through side passages and maintenance shafts, she found it: a hygiene unit. The door was half-jammed but she **** it open with her shoulder, staggering into the small, dimly lit room.

The metallic scent of old water filled the air. Cracked tiles. Rusted fixtures. But against the back wall—an old, battered shower unit blinked faintly at her.

She ripped off the remnants of her paper-thin gown with shaking hands, peeling the slimy, sticky fabric from her fevered skin.

When she stepped under the water, the cold hit her like knives.

She didn’t care.

She collapsed to her knees, letting the icy torrent crash down over her. Her hands scrubbed her skin raw, **** to erase the slickness, the feeling of the thing inside her.

And then she cried.

Wracking, broken sobs tore free from her chest—ugly, primal, unstoppable. She folded in on herself under the freezing spray, arms wrapped tight around her still-swollen stomach.

The ship seemed to echo her misery, its distant groans rising and falling with each shuddering breath she took.

After what felt like hours, when her body was too exhausted to weep any longer, she staggered to her feet. Her skin was bruised and raw, but she was clean—or as clean as she could ever be again.

In a locker by the door, she found an old standard-issue jumpsuit. It was slightly too big, but it didn’t matter. She zipped it up over her aching body, pressing the fabric tight against the gentle curve that still bulged beneath her navel.

Ignoring the sick, heavy sensation inside her, she set her jaw and stepped back into the corridor.

The bridge was her goal now. The command deck might hold answers—or at least a way out of this nightmare.

Each step toward it was a test of will.

And somewhere deep inside her, something else stirred—something left behind by the creature that had claimed her.