With one hand, Anna gently opened the boy’s mouth. His throat was swollen and red. At first glance, empty.

But Anna knew better.

“Come out,” she murmured, switching on the otoscope light. “I know you’re there.”

The boy coughed weakly.

Then she saw it.

A subtle movement. A ripple. Something alive.

Anna held her breath and carefully inserted the forceps.

The moment the metal touched, alarms exploded.

“HEY! WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!”

A nurse burst through the door and froze.

“SECURITY! GET THAT CHILD OUT!”

Anna didn’t stop.

She closed the forceps.

Whatever it was fought back.

She pulled—hard—with everything she had.

A guard grabbed her arm and yanked her backward. Anna fell, but her grip held.

And dangling from the forceps, twisting violently under the hospital lights, was something that made the nurse scream.

It wasn’t a clot.

It was a centipede.

Long. Reddish-brown. Covered in mucus and blood. Dozens of legs writhing.

Silence crashed over the room.

The guard let go.

Dr. Collins stood frozen.

On the bed, the boy sucked in a massive, clean breath.

The wet rasp vanished.

Oxygen levels climbed.
80… 85… 90…

Anna stood up slowly.

“It was eating his air,” she said quietly. “Just like it ate my dad’s.”