GR1m1 kept to the far corner of the cell when the morning shift clattered down the corridor. The hinges on the outer door always scraped first, then the latch on his own door clicked a beat later. He counted those sounds every day. They told him how much time he had before anyone stepped close enough to notice the changes under his skin.

  The plan sat in his mind with a steadiness he hadn’t felt before. Not confidence. Just structure. A shape he could follow. The other subject had agreed without hesitation, and that alone had shifted the weight of the room. Two bodies meant two chances. Various sets of eyes watching for gaps in the alchemists’ routines. Two people who wanted out more than they wanted anything else.

  He pressed his palm against the injection site along his ribs. The skin there felt warmer than the rest of him. Not fever?warm. Something else. A slow, steady movement beneath the surface, as if the parasite adjusted itself whenever he stayed still too long. He didn’t know how much of it he could take before his body failed, but he needed more. Enough to reinforce the parts of him that still felt human or humanoid.

  The alchemists didn’t look at him when they passed his cell. They never did. Their attention stayed on the other subject, the one they still believed had potential. GR1m1 watched them through the narrow gap between the bars. Their robes brushed the floor in uneven folds. One of them carried a slate covered in symbols he couldn’t read. Another held a metal case with a latch that never closed properly. It rattled with every step.

  They stopped at the neighboring cell. The door opened with a dull thud. GR1m1 leaned forward just enough to see the edge of the cot inside. The other subject sat upright, shoulders hunched, breathing through his mouth. His hands stayed pressed against his sides, fingers curled inward. The alchemists circled him without speaking. One of them lifted the subject’s arm and turned it slightly, studying the skin near the elbow. The flesh there had darkened over the last two days. Not bruised. Not infected. Something else. A spreading pattern that didn’t match any wound GR1m1 had seen before.

  The alchemist lowered the arm and made a mark on the slate. Another opened the metal case and removed a small glass tube. The liquid inside clung to the sides as if it didn’t want to move. GR1m1 watched the subject’s jaw shift. Not fear. Not anticipation. Just a reaction to the cold air hitting the exposed skin when the sleeve was pushed back.

  The injection went in without ceremony. The subject’s back stiffened. His breath caught for a moment, then steadied. The alchemists stepped away, already discussing something among themselves. Their words stayed low, but GR1m1 caught fragments of what they were saying repeatedly… Ratios… Yield… Structural failure. They spoke as if the subject wasn’t there.

  When they left, the subject sagged forward. His hands trembled once, then stopped. He didn’t look toward GR1m1’s cell, but his breathing shifted in a way GR1m1 recognized. He was counting. Matching his breath to the rhythm of the corridor. Keeping himself anchored.

  GR1m1 stepped back from the bars. The warmth under his ribs pulsed again. He pressed his hand there, feeling the faint movement. The parasite had settled deeper since the last injection. It reacted to the alchemists’ presence, or maybe to the other subject’s condition. He couldn’t tell. But he knew one thing: his body held together longer than any of the others. The alchemists had lost more subjects this week than they had kept alive. Some collapsed within hours. Others lasted a day. None survived the second stage.

  He had by a mysteriously strange occurrence or trial and error from the alchemists. But the internal question remained there…

  They didn’t understand why. They kept adjusting their mixtures, changing the timing, altering the placement of the injections. Not only that, but they didn’t realize the parasite behaved differently in him. It didn’t spread in the same pattern. It didn’t consume the surrounding tissue at the same rate. Likewise, it stayed concentrated near the injection site, drawing from something deeper instead of tearing outward. As if the bone parasite was learning from the other body and feeding in another body to strengthen the body of GR1m1…

  He needed to use that. He needed more of it before they noticed the difference.

  The next day, the alchemists returned earlier than usual. Their footsteps carried a sharper rhythm. GR1m1 stood near the wall, pretending to adjust the chain around his wrist. The metal felt cold against his skin. The parasite shifted again, as if responding to the sound of the latch.

  They went straight to the other subject. The door opened. One of them inhaled sharply. GR1m1 couldn’t see the cot from his angle, but he heard the scrape of boots on stone as they repositioned the body. The subject didn’t speak. Didn’t move. The alchemists muttered to each other, their voices clipped. One of them stepped back into the corridor and signaled for another case to be brought in.

  GR1m1 watched the doorway. He caught a glimpse of the subject’s shoulder. The skin had changed again. The darkened pattern had spread across the upper arm, forming uneven ridges that didn’t match any natural shape. The alchemists didn’t touch it. They only observed, marking their slates with quick strokes with their charcoal pen.

  They didn’t look toward GR1m1’s cell. Not once. Their call was to start over as the creature was failing to succeed. But they had to keep going.

  He stepped closer to the bars. The parasite under his ribs responded with a slow, deliberate movement. He exhaled through his nose, steadying himself. If they believed the other subject was still viable, they wouldn’t focus on him. That gave him time. Time to gather strength. Time to prepare for the next phase of the plan.

  The alchemists closed the door and moved down the corridor. Their robes brushed the floor in a restless pattern. GR1m1 listened until the outer door scraped shut.

  He pressed his palm against his ribs again. The warmth there had grown stronger. Not painful. Not yet. But it carried weight. A reminder of what he needed to endure.

  He turned toward the neighboring cell. The other subject sat with his back against the wall, breathing shallowly. His eyes stayed half?open, unfocused. GR1m1 watched him for a long moment. The plan depended on both of them. But the parasite didn’t care about plans.

  He stepped away from the bars. The chain around his wrist shifted with a dull clink. The room felt smaller than before. The air carried a faint chemical scent from the alchemists’ tools. He inhaled once, slow and controlled.

  He would take more of the parasite. He would hold together long enough to use it. And when the next opportunity came, he would move.

  The alchemists believed they controlled the pace of the experiment. They didn’t see the cracks forming in their own process. They didn’t see the way the parasite behaved differently in him.

  The alchemists changed their routine over the next few days. They no longer rushed between cells with the same frantic pace. Their movements grew deliberate, almost rehearsed, as if they had finally accepted that the parasite needed boundaries. Not control. Just containment. They spoke about restricting its natural order, though none of them used that exact phrase. GR1m1 pieced it together from the way they handled their tools and the way they paused before touching any part of a host’s body.

  He watched them work on the other subject first. They exposed a section of the man’s side and traced thin lines along the skin with a metal probe. One of them held a bundle of nerve fibers between two clamps. The fibers twitched once, then went still. The alchemist tied them off with a thread that looked too fragile to hold anything in place. GR1m1 leaned closer to the bars. The parasite reacted to the procedure, but only in the area where it had been implanted. The rest of the body stayed unchanged, as if the organism refused to acknowledge anything beyond its designated territory.

  The alchemists didn’t seem surprised. They only recorded the result and moved on.

  GR1m1 studied the scene with a focus he didn’t bother hiding. He saw more than they did. They treated the parasite like a tool that needed to be trimmed and shaped. He saw a system. A structure. Something that could do more than patch a single piece of flesh. Something that could reinforce the entire body if given the right conditions. They didn’t understand that. They only wanted a weapon that obeyed.

  He stepped back when one of the alchemists glanced toward his cell. The man didn’t linger. He returned to the other subject and adjusted the clamps again. The parasite pulsed beneath the skin, confined to its small territory. It didn’t spread. It didn’t attempt to repair anything outside the marked zone. GR1m1 recognized the pattern. The alchemists had altered the source. They had forced the organism to regenerate only the part they wanted, leaving the rest of the host to decay.

  Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  It explained why so many subjects failed. Their bodies couldn’t compensate for the imbalance. One part strengthened. The rest weakened. The parasite didn’t care. It followed the instructions carved into its nature.

  But the alchemists weren’t satisfied with that limitation. They brought in a new specimen two days later. The creature had been part of the earlier incident… the one the alchemists refused to discuss. GR1m1 remembered the sound more than the event itself. A sudden pressure in the air. A sharp crack that echoed in the room… Then silence. When they dragged the remains into the lab, only one arm still moved except for anything else… showing signs of life where it shouldn't be. The rest of the body had collapsed into something unrecognizable, as if it deflated itself, but the arm flexed at the elbow with slow, deliberate motion.

  They decided to name the organism a symbiote of sorts.

  GR1m1 watched them place the creature on a table. They tested the arm first. They pressed along the forearm, then along the shoulder. The limb responded with small, steady movements. The rest of the body didn’t react at all. The alchemists exchanged quiet remarks, their attention fixed on the arm’s structure. They injected the parasite into several points across the torso. Nothing changed. They injected it into the leg. Still nothing. Only the arm regenerated when they made small incisions along the surface. The rest of the body stayed inert.

  GR1m1 leaned forward until his forehead touched the bars. The flesh parasite didn’t behave like the others. It didn’t spread. It didn’t adapt at first as it followed a single rule: regenerate the designated limb. Nothing else. No matter how much they injected into other areas, the organism ignored all the rest of task, the alchemist had implanted for him to do.

  The alchemists seemed frustrated. They repeated the same tests with increasing urgency. They cut along the torso again. They waited. No response. They returned to the arm. The limb twitched, then steadied. The parasite worked only where it had been born.

  GR1m1 found the limitation fascinating. Not disappointing. Not discouraging. Fascinating. The parasite wasn’t flawed. It was precise. It followed its own logic. If he could understand that logic, he could use it. He imagined the arm attached to his own body. Not as a replacement. As an addition. A reinforcement. Something that could anchor the rest of him.

  He looked down at himself. His proportions had shifted since the last injection. His torso carried most of his strength now. His arms had grown heavier, their shape uneven. His legs felt small beneath him, unable to support the weight for long. He moved with a lopsided gait that made the chains rattle in an irregular rhythm. He knew he didn’t look like the others. He didn’t care. He cared about function. He cared about survival.

  But he couldn’t ask for the arm. He couldn’t show interest. The alchemists would notice. They would change their procedures. They would restrict access. He needed them to believe he was still just another subject waiting for instructions.

  He stepped back from the bars in the room they had him locked up, when the alchemists turned toward his cell. They didn’t enter. They only observed him for a moment, their eyes moving along the lines of his altered frame. One of them made a note on the slate. Another adjusted the latch on the metal case. They spoke quietly, but GR1m1 caught a few words: Stability… Yield... Secondary host...

  They didn’t understand what they had created… As they limited themselves to the rough and simpler data the other body gave them… But GR1m1 knew its potential… the limitless possibility to a body that would never stop growing.

  He waited until they left the corridor. The outer door scraped shut. The room settled into its usual stillness. He pressed his palm against his ribs. The symbiote possessing the arm shifted with slow, deliberate movement… Not painful in any way. Not comfortable in the environment it was in. Just present in a room full of despicable creatures superior to him.

  GR1m1 imagined the bone parasite joining it. Two organisms with different set of rules. Two systems that could reinforce each other if he learned how to guide them. His final chance to escape was brewing right in front of him.

  He lowered his hand and sat on the floor. The chain around his wrist settled beside him. He didn’t know how long he had before the next round of tests. But he knew what he wanted. He knew what he needed to become.

  He just couldn’t afford to show it yet. Not even for himself as the ties were still too strong to break…

  Days went by fast and the tests on the severed arm grew more frequent as the alchemists refined their methods. They brought the limb out each morning, placing it on a narrow table with metal restraints that clicked into place. The arm no longer jerked or curled on its own. It responded only when they applied their tools, bending at the elbow or flexing the fingers when they pressed along the bone. GR1m1 watched from his cell, tracking every adjustment they made. The arm moved with a slow precision that hadn’t been there before. Whatever they had done to it, the parasite inside followed their commands without resistance.

  He stood close enough to the bars to see the faint tremor that ran through the limb whenever they repositioned it. The movement wasn’t random. It carried a kind of strain he recognized. The arm had been cut away from the rest of its body, stripped of any purpose except the one the alchemists forced on it. GR1m1 understood that feeling. He had lived it since the day they carved into his skull and rearranged the parts they didn’t like.

  He pressed his hand against the wall beside him. The stone felt cold. The parasite under his ribs shifted in response to the tension running through him. He didn’t look away from the table. The arm wasn’t just a specimen to him. It was something that had been shaped the same way he had. Cuts all over the place. Adjusted over and over. Named only so the alchemists could keep track of their work.

  They called him GR1m1 because they needed a label. Not because they saw him as an individual worth sharing their experience and consider him part of their group.

  He listened to their voices as they worked. Their words blended into a steady stream of sounds he couldn’t decipher. He caught fragments sometimes, but they never formed anything he could use. They had damaged his mind early in the process, scraping away pieces they considered unnecessary. He remembered the pressure inside his skull. He remembered the way the world tilted afterward. He remembered the first time he tried to speak and nothing came out except the single word he had learned from an alchemist who complained about cleaning the remains of failed subjects.

  The man had muttered the word every time he dragged a bucket across the floor. He repeated it when he scraped dried tissue from the tables. He repeated it when he carried the bodies to the furnace. GR1m1 didn’t know the full meaning, but he understood the weight behind it. The sound carried frustration beyond normal. Weariness at the constant poking of their heavy duties. A kind of resignation that settled into the man’s shoulders each time he said it. GR1m1 had repeated the word once, testing it on his tongue. The alchemists had turned toward him with surprise, then amusement. They never taught him anything else. They didn’t want him to speak. Not only that, but they wanted him to follow commands.

  He watched the arm again. The alchemists inserted a needle into the underside of the forearm. The limb twitched once, then steadied. They nodded to each other, satisfied with the response. GR1m1 felt something tighten in his chest. Not anger… Not fear… Just recognition. The arm reacted the same way he had when they tested new mixtures on him. A brief jolt. A forced stillness. A quiet acceptance of whatever came next.

  He wondered if the arm understood anything. Not in words. In sensation as if a reflex of its nature. In this way, the body remembers pain even when the mind can’t name it. He stepped back from the bars when one of the alchemists glanced toward his cell. The man didn’t linger. He returned to the table and adjusted the restraints again. The arm lay flat, fingers slightly curled, as if waiting for the next command.

  GR1m1 lowered himself to the floor. His legs didn’t support him well anymore, like in many previous occasions, its own body was not functional enough for him to stand up straight. The proportions had shifted too much. His torso carried most of his weight, and his arms dragged along the ground when he moved. He didn’t mind the shape. He minded the purpose they had assigned to it. They saw him as a container. A host. A piece of something they could refine.

  He thought about the word again. The one he had learned from the man with the bucket. The sound had stayed with him longer than anything else. It carried a kind of truth he couldn’t explain. It told him that the world he had been born into wasn’t the only one. That there had to be something beyond the room where they kept him. Something beyond the piles of discarded bodies. Something beyond the furnace.

  He didn’t know what that something was. But the word pointed toward it. Not clearly directed to him. Just enough to make him believe there was a place where he wasn’t a piece of trash waiting to be burned. He looked at the arm again. The alchemists were packing up their tools. The limb lay still on the table, its fingers relaxed. GR1m1 imagined it attached to him. Not as decoration. A function be used for his own good… As strength. A proof that he could become something more than what they intended.

  He didn’t expect he would get it. Even less if it ever came to be didn’t know when. But he knew he wanted it. He knew it belonged with him more than it belonged on that table. He rested his head against the wall. The parasite under his ribs shifted again, slow and steady. He closed his eyes for a moment, listening to the alchemists’ footsteps fade down the corridor.

  He wasn’t done… Not yet… It was solely the beginning of something marked by destiny to happen…

  “???????? ??? ???????... ?????? ???? ?? ???????? ?? ?????? ?? ??? ?? ?????????...”

  “Monsters are mirrors... showing only the darkness we refuse to see in ourselves...”

  How was it??