Chapter 3
His eyes opened.
No panic. No gasp. No screams. Just a slow breath—soft and even—as if waking from a long and dreamless sleep.
Silas sat up.
The first thing he noticed was the air.
It touched him. Every inch of his skin felt it—cold and smooth, brushing across him like invisible fingers. A chill swept through him, not because of the temperature, but because of the sensitivity. The world felt… closer now. Every molecule. Every shift.
He looked down.
Naked.
The cocoon was gone. Melted into nothing. Along with his clothes.
But he didn't panic. He didn't blush or scramble for cover. He just stared at himself—at the unfamiliar body that had taken the place of his own.
He rose to his feet, steady and calm, the floorboards creaking beneath him.
His eyes scanned the room. Dust. More than there should've been. Tiny piles in the corners. A fine layer on the old kitchen table. Even the clock on the wall had stopped ticking, battery long dead.
He ran a hand through his hair.
It fell in soft, dark strands past his shoulders—longer than it had ever been. Silken. Almost unreal. He remembered it being short, messy, always in his eyes.
His gaze dropped to his body.
He'd grown.
Taller. Leaner. Stronger.
He remembered being around 167 centimeters. Now… he felt closer to 179. His arms had shape, carved muscle beneath smooth skin. Not bulky, but defined, like a sculpture. His stomach was flat. His chest had widened.
But that wasn't what shocked him most.
It was the stillness.
The clarity.
His breath was deep. His heartbeat... slow. Rhythmic. Not the anxious, racing pulse of a boy who'd gone through something unexplainable. No. His body moved with perfect control.
He walked toward the couch. No wobble. No stiffness. Every step was precise.
There—his backpack, tossed carelessly across the cushions.
Did I throw it there? He couldn't even remember coming home.
He crouched and unzipped it.
His phone was inside, black screen staring back at him. Dead.
He plugged it into the charger without a word and turned away.
---
The bathroom mirror greeted him with silence.
Steam filled the small space as hot water ran. He stepped beneath it, letting it cascade down his back, over his shoulders, across his face. He washed himself with gentle movements. Careful. Controlled. His hands moved like they belonged to someone else.
That's when he saw them.
His palms.
The tiny hairs—black, almost invisible unless caught by the light.
But beneath them, hidden in the lines of his skin, were needles.
Hundreds. Maybe thousands.
Tiny, microscopic limbs. Like spider legs. Folding and moving without effort, as if sensing the world. They twitched softly under the water like they were alive.
He pressed his palm to the tiled wall.
Then tried to pull away.
It didn't budge.
He blinked.
He pulled harder—still nothing.
His hand was stuck.
Like glue.
Panic flickered in his chest, but before it could rise, he relaxed. Something deep in his brain whispered: Don't pull. Let go.
And he did.
Just like that, his hand came free.
No sound. No resistance.
Silas stared at his wrist.
A small hole sat there now. Almost invisible. Like a pinprick surrounded by faint redness.
Water slid down his body. He reached for the towel—just out of reach, hanging on the far wall.
He raised his hand.
Tried to reach it without moving.
Nothing.
He squinted. Focused. Pointed two fingers. Still nothing.
He tried again—one motion after another, fingers flicking, twitching, failing.
Then he let go.
Relaxed.
Closed his middle finger toward his palm. Softly.
Fffft—
A thin line of white shot out from his wrist like silk, arcing across the room and snapping onto the towel.
He blinked.
His breath caught.
The line was perfect—like thread, shimmering faintly in the light.
He yanked.
The towel flew toward him and he caught it with his other hand.
The web snapped loose and hit the ground, vanishing slowly, almost dissolving into air like smoke or snowflakes.
Gone. Like it was never there.
He wrapped the towel around himself and dried off, staring at the floor where the web had just been.
---
Dressed now in soft clothes from his drawer, he stepped back into the living room. His phone buzzed faintly from the charger, the screen finally lighting up.
He picked it up.
The time: 8:03 PM.
He frowned.
So… seven hours? he whispered. "I was asleep for—"
He stopped.
Something was wrong.
The date.
He looked again.
His hands began to shake, ever so slightly.
He read it again. Then again.
His eyes widened, breath freezing in his lungs.
"No…" he whispered.
On the screen, it was clear.
October 17th.
Two months later.
He had gone to Oscorp on August 10th.
He had slept for two months.
---
The phone fell from his hand, clattering to the floor.
Silas stumbled back, heart thudding.
Dust in the corners. A thick layer on the table. No food in the fridge. The electricity had stayed on—probably auto-pay from his savings—but the house had been untouched.
No one had come.
No one had called.
No one had looked for him.
He walked to the window and pulled back the curtain.
The street looked the same.
But somehow... not.
The air felt heavier. The sky darker. Like the world had shifted in his absence.
He looked at his hands.
Flexed his fingers.
Closed them slowly.
The tiny limbs on his palms bristled slightly, responding to his thoughts.
He wasn't normal.
Not anymore.
He was… something else.
A question formed in his mind. One that buzzed louder than everything else.
What happened to me?
And beneath it, deeper… quieter… something darker.
What woke up with me?
---
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