Isabella Crowne, the only daughter of a billionaire, sat on the edge of her bed, both hands pressed tightly against her head. The pain had been there for days. Not sharp. Not sudden.
Persistent. Crawling.
As if something beneath her scalp refused to rest.
Doctors had found nothing. Scans were “perfect.” Specialists said it was stress. Anxiety. Too much pressure for a young woman born into wealth and expectations.
But Isabella knew better.
Because sometimes, when the pain peaked, she felt movement.
Not imagined. Not fear.
Real.
She stood before the mirror, her reflection pale, eyes rimmed red from sleepless nights. Her fingers brushed her hairline—and she froze.
Small raised spots.
Warm.
Pulsing.
“Mom…” she whispered, her voice trembling.
Her stepmother rushed in, concern already turning into panic when she saw Isabella’s face.
“They’re back,” Isabella said. “Please tell me you feel this too.”
The woman leaned closer—then recoiled.
The bumps weren’t still.
They shifted.
Not violently.
Not visibly horrifying.
Just… wrong.
Within hours, the house was sealed. Private doctors came and went. No answers. Only whispered conversations behind closed doors.
And then—unexpectedly—the boy appeared.