Chapter 22: Body Check

Sue's towel clung damply to her skin as she padded into the bedroom. The air was warm, faintly perfumed with her lotion, and heavy with the kind of silence that made every small movement seem amplified. She reached for her clothes and perched on the edge of the bed—only to jolt upright as if an electric current had shot through her spine.

She had felt something.

Her fingers skimmed the curve of her backside, a quick brush over smooth skin, before she twisted in front of the mirror, contorting her body to catch a glimpse. Nothing. Not a blemish, not a wrinkle, not a trace. The reflection stared back at her: flawless, sculpted, the kind of perfection she had built her career upon. Still, she lingered, checking once more. Was I imagining it?

Her butt was impeccable. Of course it was. It had to be.

The city street outside blazed with heat and glamour as Sue strode along, every step purposeful. The world itself seemed brighter, louder, exaggerated, as though reality was turned up a notch when she entered it. People noticed her. They always did. And why wouldn't they? She was built to be seen.

Back in the dressing room, Sue slid into her leotard, tugging the fabric into place with the ritualistic precision of a soldier donning armor. Another glance in the mirror. Another assessment. Still impeccable. Still perfect.

Onstage, under the lights of the Pump It Up set, Sue's smile was wide and contagious, the kind of smile that sold energy drinks and exercise tapes. She greeted the crew, her warmth practiced yet convincing, before lining up at the center of the formation.

"Ready, Sue?" the assistant director called.

She shot him her signature grin—teeth gleaming, eyes alive."Ready!"

The countdown began. Three… two… one…

And then the cameras rolled, the lights blazed, and Sue became her television self: flawless, magnetic, the leader of the rhythm."Hi everybody! I'm Sue and it's time to pump it up! Are you ready? LET'S GO!"

Music exploded through the speakers, bass thumping like a heartbeat. She moved effortlessly, hips snapping to the rhythm, dancers mirroring her precision.

This is what I do. This is who I am. Perfect. Perfect. Perfect.

Until—

A flicker. A feeling. That same strange pull in her backside.

Her rhythm faltered. For a moment, she froze, her hand grazing her leotard-covered cheek. Nothing. No lump, no shift. And yet… she had felt it.

The room froze with her. Music cut. Cameras stopped. Crew stared.

"I… I thought that…" she stammered, voice thin with confusion. Heat spread across her chest. Her hand pressed again, furtive, desperate. Nothing.

"Sorry," she managed. "Something distracted me."

The control room's voice came, calm, dismissive: Not a problem. Reset. Again.

But inside Sue's head, the words tangled. Something's wrong. I know it. I felt it. Why can't I see it?

They tried again. And again. Each time, Sue's polished routine cracked a little more under the weight of her own anxiety. Sweat clung to her temples. Her smile felt plastered, hollow. She could sense the eyes on her—not just the cameras, but the dancers, the crew, the audience that would eventually watch. Watching her. Watching her ass.

And then, when she bent forward—

Schlurrrp.

The sound was obscene, wet and wrong. A bulge pushed against her leotard, distorting the immaculate lines of her body. Panic exploded through her nerves. She jerked upright, nearly toppling, saved only by a dancer's reflexive catch.

Everyone stared. The silence was heavier this time, thicker, tinged with unease.

Sue's hand trembled as it reached back. Nothing. Again, nothing. What the fuck is happening to me?

"I skipped a step," she muttered, too quickly, too brightly, her laugh brittle. But nobody laughed with her.

The third attempt ended not with her mistake, but with the director's interruption. Something caught on camera. Something bizarre. They rewound the footage, replaying it frame by frame on the giant studio screen, until the truth loomed behind her in grotesque magnification: her ass, filling the screen, frozen on the moment of distortion.

Her cheeks burned hotter than the lights overhead. She tugged at her leotard, trying to cover, but the fabric betrayed her. No cut, no stitch would ever allow that flaw to be hidden.

"Can I have my dressing gown?" she whispered, then snapped, "GO GET IT!" when her assistant hesitated.

She could hear the crew murmuring, the director calling time codes, the replay dragging her humiliation out second by second. Her perfect body, her perfect image, reduced to a punchline on a loop.

By the time the assistant returned, Sue's nerves were ragged, her hands shaking as she yanked on the robe and fled the stage. "I need a five-minute break," she gasped, already halfway down the corridor.

But she knew—five minutes wouldn't be enough.

Not when she no longer trusted her own body.

The fluorescent lights hummed faintly above her as Sue hurried down the sterile backstage corridor, her footsteps tapping too fast and too loud, betraying the tension she carried in her chest. Every turn of the hallway seemed to press in on her, like the walls themselves knew her secret and wanted to close around it.

She slammed the dressing room door shut behind her and leaned against it, exhaling in sharp, shallow bursts. For a moment she didn't move, only stared at her reflection. Her own eyes, glassy and wild, stared back at her as though she were already a stranger to herself.

Slowly, with trembling hands, she tugged up the edge of her leotard. Her breath hitched. The bulge was back. Bigger. Uglier. A grotesque swelling deforming her skin, as though something alien were lodged beneath it, pressing to get out.

Her fingers hovered, hesitating—then touched it. A shiver shot down her spine. She could move it.

Biting her lip, she pressed harder, guiding the lump beneath her skin. It slid, sluggish and resistant, as if it had a mind of its own. A faint, wet suction followed it. She grimaced. Her stomach rolled with nausea, but she couldn't stop. The bulge traveled upward, dragging beneath the surface of her flesh toward her waist.

What the hell is happening to me?

A soft knock rattled the door.

"Sue? Do you want some coffee or something?" The floor runner's voice was muffled, tentative.

She didn't answer. She didn't even hear him. Her entire focus was on the thing inside her. She guided it down, across her abdomen, forcing it toward her belly button.

And then she saw it.

The skin at the center of her navel began to stretch and distort. Something glistened in the tiny hollow—a tip, the end of something buried deeper. Heart hammering, she jammed two fingers inside, spreading the tender flesh apart. Her breath came ragged as she dug deeper, searching, desperate to seize hold.

When she finally gripped it, she pulled. Slowly, slickly, impossibly, an oblong shape began to slide free. Her stomach turned. The smell of grease hit her nose, heavy and nauseating.

She pulled harder.

It came out with a revolting suction, a greasy drumstick, roasted brown, dripping fat onto her trembling hands.

This isn't real. This can't be real.

Her belly button puckered shut with an obscene, sucking pop.

Sue screamed—

And bolted upright.

Darkness swallowed her. Her lungs dragged in gulps of hot, sticky air. She was back in the secret room, drenched in sweat, her hair clinging to her forehead. The matrix in stasis lay at the far end of the pipe, its pale body still as death.

Her hands clawed at her stomach, her hip, her backside. Smooth. Perfect. Impeccable. No bulges, no wounds, no horrors waiting beneath.

Just skin.

She shuddered. Her throat ached with the echo of her own scream. What a mindfuck. A goddamn mindfuck.

Her gaze drifted to Elisabeth sprawled on the floor nearby. Rage flared in her chest. She couldn't stop herself from glaring, her whole body trembling with a mix of terror and accusation.

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