Chapter 07 – The 2nd Skin

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I don’t know how many days passed before I decided I’d had enough. Time in this place is a trick—the lights never dim, meals never come, and the screams of the others bleed into every hour until the concept of morning or night means nothing.

But my body knew. My body remembered the sun, the warmth of a bed, the rhythm of days and nights. Every time Kessler pushed those invisible needles into my veins and told me to “let it happen” I wanted to crawl out of my skin.

At first, I fought to survive. Then I fought to escape. Seventeen attempts, and each one ended the same way: me, writhing on the glass floor, dragged back by hands I never even saw, sedated until the pain turned black.

After the seventeenth, I stopped. I stopped believing in freedom. I stopped pretending that I could resist. And that’s when the thought came: if I couldn’t escape, maybe I could end it.

I don’t know what scared me more—the idea of dying or the idea that the boy in the cell next to mine might have been right: that even death wasn’t allowed here. But I still had to try.

The chance came when Kessler left me alone after another round of “induction.” My muscles were still twitching from whatever current he ran through me. My jaw ached, teeth feeling too large for my mouth. My whole body was buzzing, ready to tear itself apart. I pressed my forehead against the glass wall and whispered, “I can’t. Not again.”

Then I did the only thing that made sense to me, I slammed my head against the glass. Once. Twice. Harder. Again.

The crack of bone against glass rang in my skull like church bells. Blood smeared the transparent wall. My vision blurred. I kept going. Harder. Harder. If I could break my skull, if I could let the darkness swallow me, then maybe—maybe—I’d find peace. But the glass didn’t break. And neither did I. Instead, something inside me broke open.

It started deep in my chest, a growl I didn’t mean to make, low and feral. My fingernails tore against the floor, ripping through the fragile skin until claws I didn’t know I had scraped the glass. My body bulged, stretching, my bones grinding, my muscles ballooning as though something enormous was trapped under my skin, desperate to get out. I screamed, but it wasn’t human anymore. It was deeper and wild.

The others stopped their muttering. They went silent, every single one of them pressing against the glass of their own cages, eyes wide with recognition.

The boy next to me whispered a single word: “Bear.”

And then it happened. My arms ripped outward, fur bursting through the skin, black and coarse. My jaw split open, reshaping, teeth jagged, tusk-like. My chest heaved, muscles splitting seams in my hospital gown, until I wasn’t Lars anymore. I was massive. Heavy. A beast born of hunger and rage and pain. The Bear.

I roared, and the walls shook. The glass that had resisted seventeen escapes groaned under the weight of my fury. My claws carved gouges into it, sparks flying as though I were dragging metal against stone.

For one wild moment, I thought I could break free. But then the lights above flared brighter than the sun, and fire shot through my veins again, hotter, sharper, unbearable. My legs buckled, my body convulsed, and the Bear howled in pain. I collapsed, half-wolf, half-human, half-nightmare, twitching on the floor while Kessler’s laughter echoed through the chamber.

The glass door slid open with a hiss, and his polished shoes clicked against the floor as he stepped inside without fear. He crouched near me, tilting his head like a scientist studying a specimen. “Magnificent,” he whispered, his eyes gleaming. “The first emergence. Do you feel it, Lars? Do you feel the bear inside you?”

I tried to speak, but all that came out was a growl. My throat was no longer made for words. Kessler reached out and, with a casualness that made my stomach turn, stroked the matted fur on my arm. “The first stage of your cure has succeeded.”

“Cure?” I managed to rasp, the word twisted by the growl that clung to my voice. Kessler’s grin widened. “Yes. You are infected by prophecy, by chaos. My work is to strip it away, piece by piece, until only control remains. This… this is proof. You are strong enough to bear the pain. Strong enough to be reshaped.”

I wanted to tear him apart. To sink my teeth into his throat and feel his blood warm my tongue. The Bear inside me snarled for it, begged for it. But the fire in my veins surged again, forcing me back down, dragging me to the edge of unconsciousness.

As the darkness crept in, Kessler’s voice followed me like a whisper from Hell: “Sleep now, Lars. Tomorrow, we’ll coax another skin from you. And another. Until all nine are mine to command.” I didn’t dream that night. I only burned.

Sometime later, they gave me real food as a gift, for the first time since I’ve been here. That should’ve been the first warning. Food wasn’t part of the routine here. Meals were never meals. They were gray slabs of nutrient paste, sometimes liquid fed through a tube, always cold, always tasteless. Nothing here resembled life. That was the point, I think. To keep us hungry. To keep us hollow. But this time, when I woke from the haze of sedation, a tray was waiting for me. Actual food.

Steaming meat. Bread with butter melted into its cracks. Fruit so red and shining it looked almost unreal. The smell hit me first—rich, heavy, human. For the first time in months, I remembered hunger.

I didn’t even think. I tore into it. Meat between my teeth, butter slicking my fingers, fruit bursting juice down my chin. I didn’t care if it was poisoned. I didn’t care if it was a trick. My body wanted it, and I let it have everything. I ate until my stomach stretched taut, until I leaned back against the glass wall with grease on my lips and crumbs in my lap.

For a moment, I thought—maybe this is the reward. Maybe if I do what Kessler wants, I’ll live. Maybe that’s all it takes. Then the pain hit.

It started as a pulse in my gut. It was sharp, electric. Then it spread, burning, tearing, until it felt like someone was stabbing knives outward from inside me. I gagged, bent double. My throat convulsed. Something thick and dry clawed its way up.

I vomited. But it wasn’t food. It wasn’t liquid. It was solid. Chunks of black, jagged matter tumbled out of me and clattered on the glass floor like stones. They scraped my teeth raw, tearing at my gums, ripping at my throat as though I were coughing up my own bones.

When I finally collapsed, choking, the pile of it sat before me. Charcoal. Black, porous chunks of it, steaming faintly with some inner heat. The stench of ash filled the chamber.

I lay there, trembling, wiping the blood from my lips. My body shook with the aftershocks, stomach cramping, and my throat was raw. And then I heard it. The sound of clapping.

I looked up through blurred vision and saw Kessler standing outside the glass wall, his smile wider than ever. His gloved hands tapped together in mock applause, eyes glinting like a child staring at fireworks. “Marvelous,” he whispered. His voice carried through the hidden speakers, curling into every corner of the chamber. “The purification begins. Do you see, Lars? The Bear tore through your skin, and now the residue is leaving you. The black blood of prophecy, the soot of corruption.”

He leaned closer, his forehead nearly pressing to the glass, staring at the heap of charcoal like it was treasure.

“You are not dying,” he said, almost lovingly. “You are being cleansed. With each purge, your body sheds the dirt of the old world. What remains will be… perfect.”

I spat blood on the floor and croaked, “You’re insane.” But, Kessler didn’t flinch. He only smiled, baring too many teeth. “No, Lars. I am faithful. Faithful to science. Faithful to the promise of what you are. Nine skins. Nine forms. The world will burn, yes… but under my hand, it will burn with precision.”

He pressed a button on the panel outside, and a section of the glass wall slid open just enough for him to slide a metal tray inside. On it sat a small silver bowl. “Keep eating,” he said softly. “Every gift unlocks another piece of you.”

I stared at the bowl, bile still coating my tongue, the taste of ash choking my mouth. My body screamed for rest, but Kessler’s words gnawed at me harder than hunger. Nine skins. Nine deaths, maybe. Or nine rebirths. I didn’t touch the bowl. Not yet. But I knew, sooner or later, he would make me.