I remember skin.

Warm. Soft. Fragile.

Human.

I was born in it once. Cried in it. Bled in it.

But that was before the change—before they unstitched me in the name of science.

Before they made me… other.

They called it "research."

I call it desecration.

I rotted in a sterile box while they prodded my bones, peeled my nerves marveled at how my cells adapted.

They wanted to “improve humanity.”

But they broke it instead.

They broke me.

Now, I take their skin.

One by one, I slip inside them—wearing their bodies like damp clothes.

They never notice, not at first. Not until the eyes forget how to blink. 

Not until the mouth keeps smiling long after their soul has drowned. 

I consume them from within—their memories, their fears, their little lies.

Each new host strengthens me. Their DNA folds into mine.

I become faster. Smarter.

Less… human.

I prefer it that way.

They scream when I come.

But not for long.

Bones break like promises.

Children taste like hope. The old taste like dust and regret.

I wear many faces now.

I walk among them.

Soon, I’ll be everywhere.

A plague with a pulse.

A god wearing grief.

And when the last of them falls,

I’ll peel off the final skin,

stand beneath their sun,

and laugh with a mouth that was never mine.

Because I remember skin.

But I am so much more than human.