In the beginning, he was a wraith—a slender ghost moving quietly through the frantic crowd of freshman orientation. His frame was boyishly lean, his skin smooth and fragile, and his jaw clean-shaven. He was comfortable with his slightness; it felt safe to be overlooked. He spent hours in the library, unaware that a prehistoric clock had begun to count down within his cells.
The first sign was a flicker of deep heat beneath his sternum. He felt... denser. He assumed it was anxiety, but then his favorite worn-out shirts started to feel tight. The fabric strained across his collarbone, and the sleeves pinched his thin biceps. Standing before the mirror, he saw subtle ripples carve into his stomach—defined lines appearing without a single day of training. A faint patch of dark stubble dusted his chin, defying razor and soap.
He was confused, then worried. He wasn’t trying to grow. He wasn’t wishing for mass. It felt like his own skeleton was rejecting its containment.
By sophomore year, the confusion turned to visceral panic. The transformation was accelerating, and he was completely helpless to stop it.
His growth was aggressive and wrong. He would wake up with his thighs rubbing together, raw and swollen overnight. Deep, throbbing aches resonated in his bones as muscle fibers knitted together with inhuman speed. His chest—the flat expanse he had always known—erupted outward. Dark, thick chest hair, coarse and wild, grew in patches over skin that was stretching and tightening as muscle caps forced their way outward like stones rising from a field.
He began hiding. He wore oversized, long-sleeved hoodies even in the humid spring, terrified that someone would notice. The whispers in the dorm hallways weren't about admiration; they were about confusion. "Did you see him? He looks... dangerous now."
His body was a traitor. Every flex of an arm was a reminder that he no longer owned his own flesh. A dark beard masked his youthful face, making him look decades older. When he caught his reflection, flexing a massive bicep in his room, he didn't see strength; he saw a monster taking control. His waist was a slender chokehold beneath a broad, muscle-bound upper torso covered in a thick, coarse coat of hair. His body was fighting a war he had never declared.
Senior year. He was barely recognizable. The slender boy was dead, buried beneath overwhelming mountains of unwanted meat and hair.
The transformation was absolute, and it had consumed his youth, his privacy, and his peace of mind. He was a colossal presence on campus, a towering figure built of dense, heavy mass. His shoulders were now wide, massive rounded boulders that forced him to walk at an angle through doorways. Dark hair covered his broad, dense chest completely, thick traps rising beside a neck that had swollen to twice its size.
He was a force of nature, but he was trapped inside it. He stood on the quad, the sheer scale of his new frame intimidating everyone around him. He couldn't wear normal clothes anymore; he had to settle for low-cut tanks and athletic wear, exposing the terrifying results of his fated mutation. The silver chain he now wore felt less like an accessory and more like a talisman against the beast within.
Everyone knew it. You couldn't not know. He was the subject of whispers, rumors of steroids, of madness, of genetic anomalies. But they were all wrong. He was just a boy who had been consumed by a destiny that demanded he become a titan, and all he could do was watch, paralyzed by the horror of his own unstoppable growth, until the transformation was complete.
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