Inside the cocoon, Nikki, her skin a living canvas of swirling paint, sleeps undisturbed. The air is thick with anticipation, the low hum of the machines punctuated by faint heartbeats. Silvery light reflects off the cocoon’s surface, casting shifting patterns across the cold lab floor. All around, scientists’ notes and forgotten vials hint at the experiments that led to this moment.
The infection pulses with a life of its own, writhing as it finds purchase in the cocoon’s soft shell. Inside, Nikki’s body trembles, her dreams twisting into nightmares as the corruption mingles with her essence. The once-peaceful chrysalis now throbs with unnatural energy, and faint whispers echo in the sterile air.
Nikki[/@ch_1] emerges, her painted skin now marbled with dark veins. The lab is silent but for the clink of glass as she reaches for a shimmering vial.]
"I must evolve," she murmurs, her voice both familiar and distorted. Tilting her head back, Nikki drinks the vial of DNA, its silvery liquid swirling down her throat. With a final glance at the ruined lab, she slides into her capsule, sealing herself away for a century of slumber.
Nikki awakens, her eyes glowing with unearthly power. The infection now reigns over the earth, its dark beauty twisting everything it touches. Rising from her capsule, she strides toward a cracked stone well at the center of the room, its depths swirling with obsidian liquid.
Nikki[/@ch_1] drinks from the Well of Death. Dark tentacles erupt from her back, writhing and coiling, forming a living throne.]
Her painted skin splits and reforms, the infection weaving itself into her very being. She lifts her arms, feeling power surge through her veins, and the tentacles cradle her as their queen. As she drinks the blood of ancient dragons, wings sprout from her shoulders, vast and iridescent, casting monstrous shadows against the ruined walls.
Nikki fuses with the Heart, her body shifting—fins unfurl along her arms, gills slit her neck, and delicate antenna sprout from her brow. The corruption melts over her as a living cloak, sculpting itself into regal attire. Her throne of tentacles rises, lifting her above the infection’s tide, and she breathes in the darkness as her own.
"Now, the world is mine—reborn in my image," her voice resonates, echoing through the infected ruins. The infection is her body, her will, her destiny; the tentacles become her throne and her power, as she gazes out over a world ready to be remade.
