Beverly drifted in and out of consciousness as the ambulance raced through the city streets, sirens blaring. The EMTs hovered over her, their faces obscured by masks and protective gear, their voices muffled and distant. She caught snippets of their conversation, words like “unknown pathogen” and “biosafety level 4” that sent chills down her spine.

When they arrived at the hospital, Beverly was immediately whisked away to a secure wing, far from the bustle of the main floors. She was placed in a sealed room, its walls lined with plastic sheeting and its air filled with the hum of negative pressure ventilation.

For hours, she lay there, barely aware of her surroundings, as a parade of doctors and specialists filed in and out. They took endless samples – blood, skin, saliva, even spinal fluid – and subjected her to a battery of tests and scans. All the while, they spoke in hushed, urgent tones, their expressions ranging from fascination to outright fear.

Beverly caught glimpses of herself in the reflections of their face shields, and each time, she had to stifle a scream. Her body was almost unrecognizable now, a twisted mass of writhing tentacles and mottled, pulsating flesh. The sight filled her with a horror so profound it bordered on madness.

As the days stretched into weeks, Beverly became a fixture of the hospital’s research wing. Teams of specialists from around the world were brought in to study her case, each one more baffled than the last. Geneticists sequenced her DNA, looking for mutations or anomalies that could explain her transformation. Dermatologists examined her skin, marveling at its strange texture and properties. Infectious disease experts tested her for every known pathogen, but found nothing.

Through it all, Beverly remained in a state of numb detachment, her mind retreating deeper and deeper into itself. She spoke little, ate only when prompted, and spent most of her time staring blankly at the ceiling, lost in a haze of drugs and despair.

The doctors tried everything they could think of to halt or reverse her condition. They pumped her full of antibiotics, antivirals, and experimental drugs. They subjected her to radiation and chemotherapy, hoping to kill off the aberrant cells that were taking over her body. But nothing seemed to make a difference.

As the weeks turned into months, the initial fervor surrounding Beverly’s case began to fade. The specialists drifted away, moving on to other projects and priorities. The hospital staff grew accustomed to her presence, no longer whispering or staring when they entered her room.

But for Beverly, the nightmare never ended. Each day brought new horrors, new reminders of the creature she had become. She watched in mute anguish as her body continued to change and warp, her humanity slipping away piece by piece.

And through it all, one thought haunted her, circling endlessly in her mind. What if this was only the beginning? What if her transformation was not an end, but a prelude to something even more terrifying and unknown?

In her darkest moments, Beverly found herself longing for death, for an end to the suffering and the fear. But even that seemed like a distant dream now, an escape that was forever beyond her reach.

For she knew, with a certainty that chilled her to the bone, that whatever she was becoming, it would not let her go so easily. She was being remade, forged in the crucible of her own flesh, for a purpose she could not yet comprehend.

And as the doctors and researchers continued to pore over her case, searching in vain for answers, Beverly could only lie there, a prisoner in her own body, and wait for the next phase of her transformation to begin.

Not. The. End.