Dangling from the forceps, writhing under the sterile lights, was a long reddish centipede, slick with blood and mucus, dozens of legs twisting wildly.
The nurse screamed.
On the bed, the boy gasped—one deep, clear breath. The rasping vanished. Oxygen levels climbed rapidly.
Dr. Bradley rushed in and froze at the sight. “My God…”
Sofia stood, rubbing her arm. “It was eating his air,” she said shakily. “Like it ate my dad’s.”
Dr. Bradley carefully placed the creature into a specimen jar. He examined its body, noting unnatural markings.
“This resembles Scolopendra gigantea,” he muttered, “but altered. This isn’t an illness. It’s engineered.”
The truth spread quickly. William Harrington’s son hadn’t been sick. He had been attacked.
When William saw his son breathing normally, he sobbed. When he saw the jar, his grief hardened into fury. That species didn’t belong in this region. Someone had put it there.
The hospital locked down. Security footage was reviewed. Sofia mentioned a “doctor” who smelled strongly of mint.
Hours later she pointed at the screen. “That one.”