Alex Thompson had always preferred solitude. At thirty-four, he lived alone in a narrow apartment building on the outskirts of Chicago, where the hum of distant traffic was the closest thing he had to company. His job as a data entry clerk kept him glued to a flickering monitor from nine to five, and evenings were spent with microwave dinners and reruns of old sci-fi shows. He wasn’t unhappy, just… comfortable in his isolation. Friends had drifted away over the years, relationships fizzled before they began. It was easier that way.

The first sign came on an ordinary Tuesday morning. As he brushed his teeth, a faint itch bloomed beneath his left ribcage, deep inside, like a muscle spasm that wouldn’t quite settle. He pressed his palm against it, frowning at his reflection in the fogged mirror. ‘Too much coffee,’ he muttered, dismissing it. Antacids became his new ritual, popped like candy after every meal.

By Thursday, the itch had evolved into a persistent pressure, a subtle shifting sensation as if something alive stirred in his gut. At night, sleep brought vivid dreams: cramped, suffocating darkness, a muffled cry echoing in viscous fluid. He would jolt awake, drenched in sweat, his hand instinctively clutching his abdomen. The pressure met his touch, firm and unyielding, but when he shone a flashlight on his skin, there was nothing—just pale flesh marked by his own fingers.

Concern gnawed at him. On Friday, he visited Dr. Patel, his general practitioner for over a decade. ‘Describe the pain,’ the doctor said, stethoscope cold against Alex’s chest.

‘It itches more than hurts. And… I feel full, like there’s movement.’

Patel ordered bloodwork and an ultrasound. ‘Likely gas or stress. Your vitals are perfect.’

The results came back normal. ‘Anxiety,’ Patel concluded. ‘Try meditation apps. Cut the caffeine.’ Alex nodded, but the whispers started that night.

They were faint at first, barely audible over the rain pattering against his window. A soft murmur from within his own chest, words slurred and indistinct: ‘…out… light…’ He sat bolt upright in bed, heart hammering. The apartment was silent save for the storm. ‘Hallucinations,’ he told himself. ‘Stress.’

Saturday brought escalation. The pressure migrated upward, toward his throat. He coughed, hacking until phlegm flecked the sink—thick, with a metallic tang that lingered on his tongue. In the mirror, his eyes seemed duller, the whites veined with faint red threads. He prodded his abdomen; it yielded slightly, and for a heartbeat, he swore he felt fingers push back from inside.

Panic flickered. He scoured the internet: parasites, tumors, alien hand syndrome. Forums brimmed with stories of ‘gut feelings’ gone wrong. One post chilled him—a man claiming his stomach growled words. Delusional, the comments said. But Alex’s growls weren’t hunger; they formed syllables.

Sunday, isolation cracked. He called his sister, Emily, the only family left after their parents’ car crash a decade ago. She lived across the state, married with kids.

‘Alex? You sound weird. What’s up?’

‘I… think something’s wrong with me. Inside.’ He described the sensations, voice trembling.

Silence. Then, ‘Remember Mom’s pregnancy with you? She was huge, carried twins. One didn’t make it—absorbed or something. Doctors called it vanishing twin syndrome.’

Alex laughed nervously. ‘That’s folklore.’

‘No, it’s real. But you’re fine. See a specialist.’

He hung up, the words burrowing deeper than the thing inside him.

Monday, the rebellion began. At work, his right hand trembled on the keyboard, typing gibberish. He slammed it against the desk; it curled into a fist against his will, nails digging into palm. ‘Stop!’ he hissed. Colleagues glanced over, but he waved them off.

Home that evening, the mirror betrayed him. His reflection blinked out of sync, and in his iris, a shadow flickered—like another pupil nested within. The whispers clarified: ‘Brother… free me…’

Terror rooted him. He downed whiskey, but it burned unnaturally, splashing back up with that same metallic taste. His abdomen bulged rhythmically now, visible waves under skin stretched taut. He pressed an ear to it; the heartbeat was double—his own, and another, faster, insistent.

He couldn’t sleep. Pacing, he recalled childhood oddities: bursts of strength during bullies’ attacks, luck in avoiding accidents, but always a price—exhaustion, bruises without cause. Solitude? Friends sensed something ‘off,’ pulled away. Emily once said he had ‘two shadows’ as a kid.

By Wednesday, control slipped. His left leg dragged as he walked to the kitchen, knee buckling independently. The hand raided the drawer, seizing a paring knife. Alex wrenched it away, slicing his palm in the struggle. Blood welled, but the cut knit faster than normal, leaving a pink scar in minutes.

‘Healing factor,’ he whispered, horrified. Not his.

The voice laughed inside, a wet chuckle. ‘Ours.’

He barricaded himself, researching vanishing twin. Rare cases: fetus papyraceus, compressed remains. But survival? Impossible. Yet articles hinted at chimerism—two DNAs in one body. Was he two people?

Thursday night, climax. Abdomen swollen like late pregnancy, skin translucent, veins pulsing black. Whispers screamed: ‘Now! Birth me!’

Alex, sweating, fetched a scalpel from an online medical kit arrived that day. Mirror propped, he sterilized the blade. ‘If you’re real, come out. If not, I end the madness.’

Incision. Pain exploded, white-hot, but his hand—steady, not his control?—sliced clean from navel downward. Blood poured, but pressure eased. Flesh parted.

Inside, nestled in glistening cavity amid shifted organs, a form writhed. Humanoid, half his size, limbs twig-thin, skin slick and veined. Face—his face, malformed, one eye larger, mouth gaping with needle teeth. It gasped air, umbilical remnant snapping.

‘Brother,’ it rasped, voice matching the whispers. ‘You kept me warm so long.’

Alex staggered, staring. Memories assaulted—not his alone. Mother’s womb: two heartbeats, then struggle. He, the stronger, crushed, absorbed the weaker. But it lived, parasitic, sustaining him. Childhood strength? Its gifts. Luck? Its interventions. Solitude? It repelled others, jealous.

‘You… grew me,’ it said, crawling out, limbs elongating unnaturally. ‘Fed on your blood. Now, I take my body back.’

Horror dawned: every anomaly recontextualized. The ‘itch’—its awakening. Whispers—its pleas. His life, a host’s delusion.

It lunged, merging tendrils into his wounds. Alex screamed as flesh knit, but will faded. Eyes in mirror synchronized, twin’s glint dominant.

He—no, it—smiled. Perfect now. Whole.