As the media frenzy surrounding Beverly’s case reached a fever pitch, it was only a matter of time before the government took notice. The first to arrive were the CDC, a team of top epidemiologists and infectious disease experts dispatched to investigate the possible public health implications of Beverly’s condition.

They descended on the hospital like a swarm of locusts, commandeering entire floors and setting up a makeshift command center. They pored over every scrap of medical data, interviewed every doctor and nurse who had come into contact with Beverly, and collected samples of everything from the air in her room to the lint in her bedsheets.

But even as the CDC conducted its investigation, other branches of the government were taking an interest in Beverly’s case. The NIH began its own parallel research effort, assembling teams of geneticists and molecular biologists to study the fundamental mechanisms of her transformation.

And then there were the whispers, the rumors that began to circulate in the halls of power. Some suggested that Beverly’s condition was the result of a deliberate attack, a new form of bioterrorism unleashed by a foreign power or a rogue non-state actor. Others speculated that she was the product of a secret government experiment, a classified military program that had gone horribly wrong.

As these rumors gained traction, the Department of Homeland Security was put on high alert. Teams of agents were dispatched to the hospital, their presence a constant reminder of the growing sense of unease and paranoia that had taken hold.

For Beverly, the arrival of the government only added to the surreal nightmare that her life had become. She was questioned relentlessly, subjected to endless rounds of interrogation by stone-faced agents who seemed more interested in her potential as a threat than in her well-being.

And then, one day, everything changed. Beverly was awakened in the middle of the night by a team of heavily armed soldiers, their faces obscured by gas masks and their weapons trained on her. They bundled her onto a stretcher, strapped her down with heavy restraints, and loaded her into the back of an unmarked van.

She was being moved, they told her, to a secure government facility where she could be studied and contained more effectively. Beverly’s mind reeled with terror and confusion as the van sped through the empty streets, the city lights flickering past the tinted windows.

When they arrived at the facility, Beverly was struck by the sheer scale of it – a vast, sprawling complex of buildings and fences that seemed to stretch on forever. She was wheeled inside, past checkpoints and guard stations and endless corridors of sterile white tile.

Her new home was a stark, featureless room, its walls lined with monitoring equipment and its air thick with the hum of machinery. A team of doctors and scientists in hazmat suits hovered over her, their faces obscured behind layers of plastic and rubber.

And so began a new chapter in Beverly’s ordeal, one marked by even greater isolation and uncertainty. She was poked and prodded, subjected to endless tests and experiments, all in the name of unlocking the secrets of her condition.

But even as the government’s top minds worked tirelessly to unravel the mystery of her transformation, Beverly could sense a growing unease among her captors. They seemed almost afraid of her at times, as if they knew something she didn’t, as if they had glimpsed some dark truth that they dared not share.

Not. The. End.