Redhead Raven

“So what now?”

The question no longer carried the same desperation. It sounded tired. Jakub—now Jacob—stood in the middle of his apartment, feeling as if he was slowly losing the ability to hold things together—his thoughts, his focus, himself. Sensations that once lingered at the edge of awareness now pressed forward with uncomfortable clarity. Smells were sharper, sounds more detailed, even the light seemed alive as it shifted across the walls and furniture. Beneath all of it, one sentence clung stubbornly to his mind, something he had read online: What started it must end it. It didn’t make much sense, but it was the only direction he had. And it led to one thing—the coin.

Destroying it felt like the obvious answer. He dropped it into a small pot and set it on the stove, as if it were an ordinary task. Then he waited. He watched the metal heat, watched the air ripple above it, time stretching uncomfortably. When he finally pulled it out, it was only hot. Nothing more. No cracks, no change. The silence of that moment felt absurd. The anger came after. Without thinking, he tossed the coin into toilet cleaner acid and left it there, as if something might happen if he just gave it enough time. “Rot in there…” he muttered, closing the cabinet door as though that could postpone the problem.

But the day went on.

And so did his body.

Jacob tried to walk normally, but after a few steps it became clear he couldn’t. His balance shifted forward, his knees bent lower than they should. He stopped several times, trying to straighten himself, to remember how to stand like a human being. It never lasted. Eventually, he gave up and let his body move the way it wanted. When he crossed the apartment on all fours, something unexpected happened—not pain, not resistance, but a sudden sense of alignment. His spine settled, joints clicked into place, muscles relaxed. It wasn’t violent. It wasn’t wrong.

It was precise.

It was natural.

And that terrified him more than anything else.

The instincts didn’t overwhelm him all at once. They didn’t attack. They simply stayed—constant, unignorable. Hunger and thirst became sharp, undeniable signals. When he reached the fridge, he hesitated, staring at it as if he had forgotten what it was. Opening it proved difficult. The paws that had once been hands couldn’t grip properly. His claws scraped, slipped, caught again before the door finally gave way. He didn’t even try the utensils. They no longer made sense. Instead, he leaned down and ate directly—fast, efficient, without hesitation.

Only after he finished did he realize what he had done.

“No… I…”

The words fell apart before they formed. His tongue moved differently, his jaw no longer fit the shapes he needed. The sound that came out wasn’t right. It wasn’t human. And yet his thoughts still held together—for now. That was the only thing keeping him anchored.

He spent the rest of the day with the coin. Again and again, he tried to destroy it. A hacksaw screeched uselessly against its surface. A drill rattled in his grip. He pushed harder each time, but nothing changed. The coin remained untouched, calm, as if none of this concerned it. Slowly, a worse realization set in. The problem wasn’t that he couldn’t destroy it.

The problem was that he was changing faster than he could react.

Each attempt was less precise than the last. Each decision slower.

By evening, he struggled to hold onto a full thought. Not because he didn’t want to—but because it was becoming harder. His thoughts shortened, simplified, broke apart. Only the most basic ones remained. And from those came the last idea he had left. Not a plan. Not logic. Just a final instinct pushing in the opposite direction.

To speak.

To say something before he lost the ability completely.

He picked up the coin with his paws. It was difficult to hold; his claws slid against the metal, his grip unstable. He focused harder than he had all day, as if everything depended on it. He took a deep breath and tried to form the words. His tongue resisted. His mouth refused to shape itself correctly. But he forced it.

“I… want… to be… Jacob…”

Each word was heavier than the last.

“Just… human… Jacob… again.”

Silence followed.

Nothing happened.

Or maybe something did. For a brief moment, the coin might have trembled. He couldn’t be sure. It could have been his imagination.

What was certain was this—the changes did not stop. They intensified, as if his attempt had been nothing more than a final, meaningless gesture. He felt something shifting deeper inside him, pushing further, faster, leaving less and less space for words, for thought, for himself. The coin slipped from his paws and fell onto the bed. He didn’t have the strength to pick it up again.

Without resistance, he curled into himself. His body found the position naturally, effortlessly. For the first time, he didn’t fight it.

Not because he accepted it.

But because he had nothing left to fight with.

And he fell asleep.

Jacob didn’t have a peaceful night. There were no dreams he could remember, no fragments of images he could return to and try to make sense of. It was a sleep interrupted by his own body—short, sharp returns to awareness where he would inhale, tense up, and feel an undeniable certainty that something had just changed. He couldn’t name it. It wasn’t pain, nor a specific shift he could pinpoint. It was a quiet, persistent knowledge that his body was no longer in the same state it had been moments before. He lay in the dark, listening to the silence of the apartment, and gradually realized something else—that the darkness was no longer as impenetrable as it should have been. The outlines of furniture, the edges of doors, even the subtle movement of a curtain were visible, as if light lingered in the air longer than it should. He blinked, sat up, and stared ahead, unable to decide whether it was real or just the aftereffect of exhaustion. “That’s not possible…” he whispered at last, but his own voice sounded hollow. He didn’t know his eyes were changing—that the brown iris was occupying more space, that the pupils expanded in darkness and narrowed into thin slits in the light. He only knew he could see. And that he shouldn’t.

Morning didn’t bring relief. His body felt rested, but not in any familiar way—it hadn’t gone through the usual cycle of fatigue and recovery; it was simply… ready. Movements were precise, immediate, without hesitation, as if the gap between intention and action had disappeared. He noticed it right away, but tried to explain it away—leftover tension from the climb, adrenaline, anything that fit into a normal world. The explanation didn’t hold for long. First his hands. Then his teeth. The hair on his chest. Everything shifting, step by step. Not abruptly, but relentlessly. When he ate, he understood another layer of the problem. It wasn’t just how he looked—it was how his body functioned. The moment he took the first bite, the movement of his jaw changed. It wasn’t conscious. His teeth sank in differently, his canines taking the lead, his jaw working in shorter, stronger motions. He tore instead of chewing. He tried to slow down, to impose his old rhythm, but the moment his focus slipped, his body returned to the new pattern. It didn’t feel like something controlling him. It felt like he had stumbled upon a pattern he didn’t know—but his body did. The realization came in a quiet, unsettling moment. And then came the vibration—a deep, rhythmic purring rising from his chest. Not painful. On the contrary, strangely soothing. And that was what frightened him most.

He spent the rest of the morning searching. Systematically, almost coldly, as if that alone could give him back control. He went through possibilities one by one. Genetics was the first to go—too fast, too precise. Chemistry followed—he hadn’t injected anything, hadn’t consumed anything unusual. Every logical path ended in a dead end. And then there was only one possibility left. The one he would have dismissed without hesitation just a day ago. Magic. An idea his world didn’t accept, or at least didn’t take seriously. And yet it was the only explanation that didn’t contradict what he was experiencing.

The afternoon brought another shift. This time in his legs. When he stood up from the computer, he knew immediately. His weight shifted forward, onto the balls of his feet. His heels barely touched the ground, as if they were secondary. Every step was quieter, softer, more precise. When he looked down, he saw that his feet weren’t the same. Not dramatically different—but enough. His toes were more defined, actively engaging with each step. The skin on the underside of his foot was different—not hard like a callus, but flexible and firm at the same time, built to take repeated pressure. And the hair. On the top of his foot, along the sides. Where there hadn’t been any before. “I need to stop this… or I’ll grow a tail by tomorrow,” he muttered, but the attempt at humor dissolved before it could take hold.

That evening, he immersed himself in searching again. This time without resistance. He went through forums, notes, stories he would have dismissed in seconds before. Most of it was nonsense, but certain patterns repeated. Wishes spoken without thinking. Objects acting as triggers. Changes that started subtly and then accelerated. It wasn’t that he believed it. It was that it was the only thing that didn’t contradict what was happening to him. Time blurred. When he finally pulled himself away from the screen, it was past two in the morning. Exhaustion hit him suddenly, heavy and deep. “Damn cat,” he muttered as he stood up, and only a few seconds later did he realize why the words unsettled him.

The shower didn’t help. The hot water only amplified the sensitivity of his skin. Every touch was precise, every part of his body reacting. The hair on his back was thicker, more pronounced. His body continued to change regardless of his attempts to slow it down. When he lay down, he fell asleep instantly. And the changes intensified.

They began in his feet. The skin on the underside thickened in specific areas—under the toes, beneath the front of the foot. Not as protection from strain, but as adaptation to it. Flexible, firm, responding to pressure differently than before. His toes curled and spread in his sleep, as if testing a new range of motion. The arch adjusted, tension shifting. Even in sleep, his weight moved forward.

Morning made it undeniable. The moment he stood, he knew. His weight shifted forward even more than before. His heels were secondary, not foundational. His feet were slightly narrower, longer, his toes more active. And his body treated it as correct. The mirror only confirmed it. Thicker hair, spreading further. More growth across his shoulders. His ears had changed shape, the Darwinian tubercle more pronounced, fine hairs visible along the edges. His eyes reacted instantly to light, pupils narrowing into thin slits. “What’s happening to me…” he exhaled, but no answer came.

After eating, he returned to the computer. This time without doubt. Magic was the only possibility left. He kept reading, and the more he read, the more the pieces aligned—not as proof, but as direction. And then it happened again. His body. Another shift. He stood, looked down—his feet, the hair, the movement—all one step further. And in that moment, it clicked. The cliff. The ledge. The stone. The coin.

He moved immediately toward the pants he had thrown over the chair. He stepped almost entirely on the front of his feet now, silent, precise, as if it were natural. He reached into the pocket and pulled it out. The bronze coin. Worn smooth, with a small hole at the edge. Still the same. He held it between his fingers and waited. Nothing happened. No reaction. Just the cold of metal.

But this time, that was enough.

Because for the first time, it didn’t feel like he was holding a random object.

Jacob pulled himself up onto the narrow rock ledge, hauling his body over the edge before stopping, bent forward, hands braced on his knees. His breathing was heavy and uneven, his chest rising faster than he liked. The sun hung high above, and the heated stone radiated warmth back into his body. When he finally straightened, he leaned his back against the wall and closed his eyes for a moment. Most climbers would have turned back long before this point. Maybe that’s why he was alone up here.

When he opened his eyes again, he felt a slight shift beneath his shoulder blade. At first, he ignored it, but instinct made him move aside. He ran his fingers over the rock and paused. One of the stones felt loose. He pressed against it. With a dull sound, it came free and disappeared into the void below. In the hollow it left behind, the end of an old cord stuck out.

Jacob stared at it for a moment, then reached out and took hold of it. The cord felt surprisingly sturdy. He pulled carefully. A small, decayed pouch slid out from the cavity. As soon as he squeezed it, the fabric gave way, and a bronze coin slipped into his palm. It was worn smooth, its markings almost completely erased, with a small hole near the edge. He turned it between his fingers for a moment, then, without much thought, slipped it into his pocket and began preparing for the descent.

Climbing down was worse.

At one point, a foothold broke beneath him, and in an instant he was hanging ten meters above the ground by one hand. His fingers burned, the muscles in his forearm screamed, but he didn’t let go. He found another hold, shifted his weight, caught himself with his other hand. Eventually, he made it down, but the memory of that moment stayed with him. His body had memorized it.

He got home exhausted. Truly exhausted. After a quick meal, he went straight to the bathroom and sank into the hot water. His muscles relaxed, his head rested against the edge of the tub, and for a moment everything went still. That was when he remembered the coin. He reached for his clothes, pulled it from his pocket, and tried to identify it using his phone. No luck. The details were too worn.

He yawned. “It’s been a long day… I’m tired like a kitten,” he muttered to himself. He set the coin and his phone down on the washing machine beside the tub. As he released it from his fingers, he felt a faint, almost imperceptible tremor. He didn’t pay it any attention. The exhaustion was stronger. He closed his eyes and fell asleep.

Something changed during the night.

Not suddenly, not dramatically. It was more like something deep beneath the surface had begun to move. Warmth spread from his chest into his arms, into his hands. The right one reacted first. His fingers curled slightly in his sleep, as if testing something. The skin at his fingertips grew denser, the tendons tightened. Then it spread further. To the other hand, into his body, into his breathing. Jacob curled in on himself more tightly in his sleep, his posture more compact, more natural in a way that didn’t come from conscious thought.

Morning felt strange.

His body was light, almost too well-rested. His movements were precise, immediate. He noticed it, but tried to explain it away as leftover adrenaline from the climb. That explanation didn’t last long.

First, his right hand. His fingers moved differently, his grip more precise, stronger. The range of motion was slightly greater. The skin felt different to the touch—denser, rougher. When he tested it again, there was a faint cracking sound, but no pain. It felt more like something inside had shifted into place.

Then the left hand began to catch up. The difference between them started to fade.

By midday, he noticed his teeth. There was no pain, just the sense that his bite didn’t sit quite the same. When he ran his tongue over them, he froze. His canines were sharper. Not dramatically—but enough that it couldn’t be ignored.

By afternoon, it was visible on his chest. The narrow line of hair between his pectorals had thickened and spread. Not in a sudden jump, but faster than anything normal. When he ran his hand across it, the sensation was stronger than before. His skin responded differently.

His entire body functioned differently. Faster. More precisely. Without the small imperfections he had never noticed before. He dropped down to do a few push-ups, just to test himself, and stopped halfway through the third. He held himself above the ground without effort, his muscles responding instantly. There was no fatigue in it. There was strength he wasn’t used to.

By evening, there was nothing left to ignore.

He stood in front of the mirror, both hands raised. The right and left were nearly identical now. Both… changed. He clenched his fists. His fingers locked into place, tight and exact, with a certainty that didn’t feel entirely human. He held it there for a moment, feeling that new sensation. Then he opened them quickly.

“This isn’t normal,” he said out loud.

That night, everything accelerated.

This time, there was no gradual shift. The warmth surged through his body, his muscles working, his skin reacting, his entire frame adjusting faster than before. His hands, his chest, his jaw, even his breathing—everything shifted another step forward. In his sleep, Jacob tensed, curled tighter, pulling the blanket closer to himself.

Morning tore him out of sleep.

He sat on the edge of the bed, staring at his hands. The difference between them was gone. The change remained. When he clenched them, the motion was immediate, precise, finishing in a way it never had before.

He stood too quickly—but didn’t lose his balance. His body caught itself before he even realized he needed it to.

He walked to the mirror and stopped. This time, it wasn’t just a feeling. He could see it. His posture was different, his center of gravity lower. His chest was thicker, his stubble heavier. When he opened his mouth, his canines were visibly longer. Sharper.

He closed it and leaned against the sink. His palms adjusted automatically to its shape, without thought. His breathing was fast.

“This isn’t just exhaustion,” he said.

He stood there, staring at himself.

“This is happening.”

For the first time, he stopped trying to explain it away. He accepted it as a fact. The question that followed was simple.

What is this?

No answer came. Only that feeling, deep inside him, stronger than before. Familiar, and yet not his.

His name was Václav. He got into university mainly thanks to his excellent results in physical education. He was a typical athlete—strong, broad-built, a guy to whom nature had given more muscle than intellectual talent. Academically, he didn’t push himself much; most of the work was done by his girlfriends, whom he rotated depending on which subject he was currently struggling with. He wasn’t malicious or intentionally selfish—he simply followed the path of least resistance. Why spend hours over essays when he could spend that time in the gym and let someone else write them better? Some requirements, however, couldn’t be bypassed. Despite carefully selecting his courses, he was still missing credits for scientific work. No laboratory wanted him—he was too bulky and clumsy—so he accepted an offer to become a test subject in an experimental project. The project was led by an older PhD student named Milan. A typical average student—unremarkable, somewhat uneasy around physically dominant men, and with a reputation on campus that wasn’t exactly the best. His research operated on the edge of ethics and legality, especially in the field of genetic modification, but since he funded it himself, the university tolerated it. The laboratory was located in the basement of the building: a small, sterile room filled with equipment Václav didn’t understand, and a single computer against the wall. Milan was already waiting for him and handed him the results of his medical examination. “So, Václav,” he began quietly, “you understand that you’ll need to come in every Friday afternoon for several weeks. You’ll receive an injection, and I’ll monitor your reactions. Do you agree?” Václav nodded. He only knew the basic information about the experiment and had no reason to doubt it. His limited imagination offered him no warning scenarios. He stripped down to his underwear. He had nothing to be ashamed of: one hundred eighty-five centimeters tall, ninety-five kilos of pure muscle, wrapped in light, smoothly shaved skin. Otherwise, he would have had light brown hair on his abdomen, thicker on his chest and groin—all carefully groomed for perfect symmetry. With light brown eyes, he watched indifferently as Milan carefully measured and weighed him. Once the initial procedures were complete, Milan laid him down on a medical bed, attached sensors, and connected an IV. Only after checking all the readings did he inject the prepared substance into the line—the liquid briefly turned blue. Václav felt only a short acceleration of his heartbeat, which soon settled. The entire visit lasted two hours. After that, Václav happily headed off into the weekend. Whatever was now circulating in his veins didn’t interest him. The hunger that hit him shortly before noon, he attributed to a normal post-workout appetite.

Chapter 2: The First Week

Václav’s hunger did not subside.

As early as Saturday morning, he woke up long before his alarm, with a hollow feeling in his stomach, as if he hadn’t eaten all night. He smiled at it—this was exactly how he used to feel during a bulk, when the body demanded fuel for growth. Nothing he couldn’t handle. He headed to the gym right after breakfast, which disappeared faster than usual this time, and then had another one.

But as the week went on, something changed. His usual six meals a day suddenly weren’t enough. Portions grew, the fridge emptied faster, and Václav began to notice that he felt like eating even between meals. In the evenings, he started mixing himself an extra gainer—“just in case,” he told himself. When hunger woke him up at night, he got up, ate two protein bars, and went back to sleep.

His workouts were better than ever. His strength was going up, the weights felt lighter, and recovery was faster. Václav attributed it to finally eating enough—maybe even too much. But who would complain when the results were coming?

When he descended into the underground lab again on Friday afternoon, Milan welcomed him with a slight smile—the kind that appears when things are going according to plan.

“Let’s take a look,” the PhD student said, gesturing toward the scale.

Václav stepped on. The number stopped at 98.5 kg.

“Three and a half kilos in a week,” Milan said with satisfaction, jotting something down. “That’s excellent. Exactly within the range I expected.”

Václav looked down at his body. The changes were subtle—his shoulders perhaps a little fuller, his abdomen still firm, but his muscles seemed to have more volume, more fullness. No extra fat, just pure mass. He felt… bigger.

When Milan laid him down on the examination table and attached the sensors, Václav finally asked:

“That hunger… is it normal? I’m eating like crazy. I’ve never had this kind of appetite.”

Milan paused for a moment, then shrugged and prepared the injection.

“Yes, that’s an expected side effect,” he replied calmly. “Your body is consuming much more energy now. It needs building material. You’ll get used to it soon—and then you won’t even notice it anymore.”

The liquid turned blue again in the tubing and slowly disappeared into his vein.

Václav felt only a brief warmth spreading through his body. This time his pulse sped up a bit more, but soon settled again.

When he left two hours later, the hunger was already back—stronger than ever. Václav stopped at the first kebab stand on his way and ordered two large ones. He could feel his body anticipating the next dose of fuel.

And somewhere deep inside, in a place he still couldn’t name, something began to wake up.

Chapter 3: The Second Week

Václav—or Venca, as his gym friends now called him more often—began to treat the insatiable hunger as an ally. Just as Milan had predicted, its intensity stabilized. He no longer woke up at night with cramps in his stomach; he simply ate. A lot. And the results were worth it. In the gym, it was impossible not to notice. Weights that had been a challenge just two weeks ago now moved with ease. Sets got longer, loads increased, and with them, his size. His shoulders rounded out, his chest gained fullness, his thighs grew wider. These were no longer just dry, hard muscles—a thin layer of subcutaneous fat began to appear, making everything look bigger, more massive. Venca liked what he saw in the mirror even more than before. Another change came more quietly. His sleep became deep, almost comatose. In the mornings, he sometimes struggled to get out of bed—as if his body refused to leave the regeneration phase. On Thursday morning, he didn’t even manage to shave; he was rushing to a lecture and left the stubble on his face, chest, and stomach alone. For the first time in years. When he descended into the lab on Friday afternoon, the stubble was already two days old—light brown hairs had appeared on his cheeks, neck, across his broad chest, on his stomach, and on his thighs. The body he had kept perfectly smooth for so long was beginning to grow over again. Milan noticed it immediately but said nothing. He only smiled slightly—that same satisfied, almost proud smile as before—and gestured toward the scale. 105.5 kg. Seven kilos in a week. “Well, looks like you’re growing like you’re being fattened up,” the PhD student remarked dryly, lightly patting Václav’s stomach. His hand sank into a soft but firm layer that was building there. Václav smirked—the praise pleased him more than he expected. The word “fattening” resonated pleasantly within him, as if it touched something deep and previously unknown. He felt warmth in his lower abdomen that had nothing to do with the injection that soon flowed into his veins. When he left the lab two hours later, the thought hadn’t left him. Fattening. He was growing. Getting stronger. Gaining. He could feel his body anticipating the next meal, the next growth. The next Friday. And for the first time, he realized he was actually looking forward to it.

Chapter 4: The Third Week

Hunger had become Václav’s constant companion—not wild, not painful, just a deep, pleasant rumble that made him eat regularly and a lot. Stable as a metronome. His weight, however, was anything but stable. At the beginning of the week, he still tried to stick to a clean diet—chicken, rice, broccoli, eggs—but by Wednesday he gave up. He ordered two large pizzas and ate them both by himself while watching a show. The next day, he had a burger with extra fries and a milkshake. His body accepted it all gratefully; no guilt, only a sense of fullness and strength. On Tuesday, for the first time in his entire “career,” he skipped the gym. He had a date—a girl from the economics department he’d met at a party. Instead of lifting, he had a big portion of pasta with meat and a creamy sauce before the meeting. “I’ll be sweating somewhere else anyway,” he told himself with a grin. The date went great. After a quick dinner at a bistro, they ended up at her place. Václav was, as always, skilled; he knew what he was doing, and his powerful body along with his size usually guaranteed success. The girl was satisfied—she fell asleep with a blissful smile while he quietly got dressed. But something was missing. The climax came, but late, almost mechanically. None of that wild, almost animal release he was used to. More like a duty he had to finish. He lay beside her for a while, wondering whether he was just tired or if stress from school was catching up with him. In the end, he let it go. On Friday, the scale showed 115.8 kg. Ten kilos in a week. It was no longer just muscle with a slight layer of fat. Now it was fifty-fifty—his broad shoulders and chest still looked impressive, but his belly had rounded out, his hips widened, and his thighs rubbed together more than before. When he looked in the mirror, he saw someone bigger, fuller—almost bear-like. “Could what you’re doing have any effect… you know… on libido?” he asked cautiously as he lay on the examination table while Milan attached the IV. Milan looked up from the equipment and smiled that calm, almost paternal smile. “You’re in a hormonal storm right now, Václav. Your body is shifting priorities. Growth, recovery, energy storage… all of that is running at full speed. I wouldn’t worry about it. In time, you’ll figure out what you really enjoy.” Václav nodded. Maybe he was right. Another visible change was on the surface. For the second time that week, he hadn’t shaved—not his face, not his body. In the morning he didn’t have time; in the evening he didn’t feel like it. Now the layer of hair was clearly noticeable: light brown, denser on his chest and stomach, where it formed a continuous carpet that stretched downward. On his shoulders, back, and thighs, new patches appeared—as if the growth had decided to expand into places it had never been before. When he left the lab two hours later, he could feel his shirt clinging tighter around his belly and the faint friction of body hair against the fabric under his arms. Hunger struck immediately—this time he craved something sweet and fatty. Milan walked him to the door and watched him leave with a quiet, satisfied smile. So far, everything was going exactly according to plan.

Chapter 5: The Fourth Week

Václav spent the entire week thinking about Milan’s words. “In time, you’ll figure out what you really enjoy.” Before, the answer would have been immediate: the gym. The smell of iron, the clang of weights, the feeling of muscles filling with blood as every rep added another millimeter. That had always been what fired him up. But now he knew something had changed. He had started to enjoy eating. In just four weeks, his stomach had expanded unbelievably. He still kept his six meals a day, but the portions were now almost three times larger. Where he once ate two chicken breasts with rice, now entire family-sized packs disappeared. And what surprised him most—when he ate, he felt the same excitement as during a heavy squat. Warmth in his lower abdomen, faster breathing, tension that built with every bite. On Sunday, he tried it deliberately. He overate. Two large portions of Chinese food, followed by a whole box of donuts. When he finished, he felt something he had been missing for days—a sharp, almost painful arousal that resulted in a small, damp stain in his boxers. Without touching himself. Just from fullness. It confused him, but at the same time… it intrigued him. On Wednesday, he skipped training for the second time in a row. This time with preparation. He ordered digestive enzymes, two two-liter bottles of cola, and three large pizzas. Plus two packs of donuts—“just in case.” He started slowly. Enzymes, first pizza, cola. The second pizza disappeared faster. His stomach pushed outward, his skin tightened, his shirt rolled up. With every bite, the tension grew—not only in his stomach. Halfway through the third pizza, he began rubbing himself through his boxers. He could feel the dampness spreading. The pressure was immense, but he didn’t stop. He opened the donuts. The climax came halfway through the pack. His stretched belly trembled, his breath caught, and his lower abdomen flooded with warmth. Intense, exhausting—exactly what he had been craving for so long. He collapsed onto the bed, tired, satisfied. He fell asleep instantly, without even changing. In the morning, hunger woke him—stronger than before. His belly was still swollen, heavy, but the feeling of fullness was pleasant. The gym didn’t exist that day. When he descended into the lab on Friday afternoon, his shirt barely covered his large, protruding belly. The scale showed 127.9 kg. Twelve kilos in a week. Milan smiled during the measurement—this time broadly, almost proudly—and lightly patted Václav’s tense stomach. His hand sank deep into the soft layer. “Looks like you’ve found your appetite,” he said quietly, with a hint of satisfaction. Václav blushed all the way to his hairline. He said nothing. He wasn’t ready to admit it yet. Milan didn’t push him. He simply connected the IV, injected the next dose, and watched as the blue liquid disappeared into his vein. He knew Václav’s moment would come soon. He knew he was exactly on the right path.

Chapter 6: The Fifth Week

Václav managed to force himself to go to the gym only on Saturday. It took effort. The motivation to get bigger was still there, but eating had become a much more pleasant, easier path. When he finally lay down at the bench press, some of the weights had gone down. Not that he was losing strength—he could still lift more than most of the guys in the gym—but now he had to carry all that new mass on his body as well. Every extra kilo took something away from the iron. In the shower afterward, he stood alone. No admiring looks, no “Hey, Václav is still a monster.” People looked elsewhere or hurried away. He realized that this was no longer the classic bulking phase he had been used to. And what frightened him most—he wasn’t sure if he didn’t actually like this new direction more than before. The next week, he went to the gym only on Monday. A short, almost symbolic workout. On the way home, he “rewarded” himself with a massive grocery haul—two bags full of food. At home, he stuffed himself to the point where his belly hurt, and the arousal peaked into another damp, exhausted sleep. In the morning, he woke up with his belly firmer than he expected. These were not hard blocks of muscle—it was a firmness from deep within, coming from a thick layer of fat settling around his organs. More than half of everything he had gained in recent weeks had gone there. His belly was no longer just protruding—it was deep, heavy, with a soft overhang spilling over the waistband of his pants. And then there was another change, one only he noticed. His member—once a majestic, almost twenty-centimeter spear he had been proud of—was shrinking. Some of the length had disappeared into the new layer of fat and dense hair (he had completely abandoned shaving in his groin), but a few centimeters were an actual loss. Still, it didn’t reduce his arousal. Quite the opposite. Now it came with every bite, every sip of a protein shake, every feeling of fullness. When he descended into the lab on Friday afternoon, the scale stopped at 142.7 kg. Almost fifteen kilos in a week. More than ten of it pure visceral fat. Milan examined him, ran his hand over his massive, hairy belly, and nodded with satisfaction. “Looks like someone’s really found himself,” he said quietly, approvingly. His palm sank deep into the soft layer and stayed there for a moment. Václav felt a pleasant shiver—not just in his stomach, but lower, in his abdomen. He blushed, but didn’t pull away. Milan saw it. He smiled. Everything was going exactly according to plan. They were halfway through the experiment, and Václav’s reactions were clearer than any data on the monitor. During the measurements, he used every opportunity to touch him, every moment to praise him—“You’re growing nicely,” “This is exactly it,” “I can see you enjoyed yourself.” When Václav left two hours later, he was more confused than ever. But also more satisfied. Somewhere inside, he knew there was no going back. And that he didn’t mind at all.

Chapter 7: The Sixth Week

As early as Friday evening, Václav indulged in another in a long line of overeating sessions. But this time, it wasn’t just about food. He lay on the bed with his belly stretched tight, painfully full, while images of Milan’s hands ran through his mind—measuring him, stroking his growing stomach, praising him in that calm, almost gentle voice. Every touch, every “You’re growing nicely” echoed back to him. And it was those memories that brought him to climax—intense, almost cramping—leaving him exhausted and satisfied at the same time. On Saturday morning, he stood in front of the mirror after a shower. For the first time in a long while, he looked at himself without guilt. His belly was enormous, round, firm like a basketball, covered in a dense carpet of light brown hair stretching from his chest downward. His hips had widened, his chest softened and sagged slightly under the weight of fat. His shoulders were still broad, but now wrapped in a soft layer. He was… different. And yet, he liked it. He was proud of himself. Saturday and Sunday passed the same way—huge portions, fullness, memories of Milan, and then that sweet, exhausted sleep with damp boxers. On Monday, he decided to skip the gym completely. Instead, for the first time in years, he went swimming. His belly got in the way when turning, but the water kept him afloat and he felt lighter. In the shower afterward, he watched other men—their looks were no longer disapproving like in the gym. Some looked with respect, others with something Václav couldn’t quite name. And he caught himself looking too. Not at women, as he used to. At men. At their bodies, at their calm. It didn’t feel strange—until he started thinking about it too much. Wednesday and Thursday brought two more “releases.” He realized he craved contact. Not women—unless they happened to be carrying trays of food. He craved something else. Praise. Touch. The feeling of being seen. On Friday, he arrived at the lab with his face carefully shaved—the only place he still maintained any order. He undressed with a sense of anticipation, almost nervousness. The scale showed 157.5 kg. Almost fifteen kilos in a week. The vast majority of it visceral fat—his belly now swung in front of him like a huge, firm ball, hanging over his thighs and shifting with every step. Milan smiled—this time openly, almost excited. During the measurements, his hands lingered longer. They moved across the grown belly, the hips, the back. “Beautiful,” he whispered. “Exactly how I imagined you.” Václav blushed, but didn’t pull away. On the contrary. He felt something inside him loosen. For the first time, he decided to speak. “I… I like this the most now,” he admitted quietly. “Eating. Stuffing myself. And… when you praise me, it’s even better.” Milan looked at him with something that resembled deep satisfaction—and perhaps even tenderness. “I know,” he said simply. “And next time I’ll prepare a proper feast for you. You’ll feel even better.” Václav nodded. He didn’t know if that would even be necessary. He already felt… at home in Milan’s presence. As if he had found someone who saw him as he now was. And who didn’t like him any less for it—quite the opposite. When he left two hours later, his belly swayed slightly under a shirt that had long since stopped fitting. Hunger came immediately. And Václav smiled. He was looking forward to next Friday.

Chapter 8: The Seventh Week

Václav left the gym behind for good. The machines had their limits, and he had long surpassed them—not only in weight, but in sheer volume. The dumbbells at home were enough for occasional movement when he felt the need, but the pool… that suited him far better. The water carried him, his belly swaying gently, and swimming gave him a new kind of strength—looser, slower, but deeply satisfying. He noticed the looks. Different from before. Not admiration for muscles, but something deeper, more intent. And he didn’t resist returning them. Some men in the showers or by the pool loungers held his gaze longer than usual. And Václav felt a restlessness stir within him. On Saturday after the pool, he returned home and sank into another wave of sensations—his body responding not just to food anymore, but to memories, impressions, and anticipation. His hands explored unfamiliar paths, discovering new sources of pleasure across his changing body. The experience was intense, overwhelming, and left him drained but deeply content. The next morning, he woke up confused—but satisfied. He didn’t fully understand what was happening to him. Food, however, quickly pushed those thoughts aside. By Wednesday, he was back at the pool. His belly, even fuller now, shifted in the water like a heavy buoy, the skin stretched tight. Fine stretch marks had begun to appear—silent proof of the rapid growth. Almost everything he gained now went straight into visceral fat. “Want to hit the sauna?” a man asked him—the same one he had exchanged looks with a few days earlier. The man’s hand briefly brushed over his protruding belly. Václav felt something inside him give way. In that moment, aside from food, there was nothing he wanted more. The sauna was quiet. The air thick, heavy. What followed was less about dominance or control, and more about surrendering to sensation, to closeness, to being fully present in his body. For Václav, it was another step in understanding what he had become—and what he wanted. Later, under the shower, and then walking back to the locker room, his body carried the aftereffects clearly. Something in him had shifted permanently. Thursday passed in quiet reflection. On Friday, he descended into the lab with his face carefully shaved and his heart beating with anticipation. Milan had kept his promise. On the table waited several large portions of pasta—carbonara, bolognese, pesto—and two two-liter bottles of cola. Enough to fill him to the point of bursting. Václav looked at the food with a mixture of hunger and excitement. “Work first, then pleasure,” Milan smiled, leading him to the measurements. The scale showed 176 kg. Ten kilos in a week—all of it visceral fat. Milan praised him, ran his hands over his belly, his sides, his chest. Václav could feel the reaction immediately. Then Milan connected the IV, released the serum into his veins, and began feeding him. Václav opened his mouth obediently. He swallowed everything Milan offered—forkfuls, spoonfuls, sometimes even with his hands. Milan enjoyed it as much as he did; his eyes shone with quiet satisfaction. By the time the IV was removed, they were halfway through the feast. Václav’s belly was stretched tight, his shirt rolled up, his skin gleaming. The rest of the evening blurred into a haze of fullness, touch, and overwhelming sensation. When Václav finally left the lab hours later, his belly felt ready to burst, his shirt damp with sweat, his body heavy—but strangely relieved, lighter in a way that had nothing to do with weight. And he knew he couldn’t wait for next Friday

Chapter 9: The Final Week

On Saturday evening, for the first time in a long while, Václav didn’t go swimming or work out. Instead, he went out to a club—one of those places he used to pass with disdain. Now he stepped inside with the feeling that he belonged there. A large, hairy man like him immediately drew attention. And he accepted it. He wasn’t looking for love, just as he hadn’t been a few months ago when he was still that arrogant gym bro. He was looking for something simpler. For experience. For sensation. He found it quickly. Within an hour, he had lost himself in the rhythm of the night—heat, closeness, bodies, and a sense of letting go. Each moment felt more intense than the last, each one pushing him further away from the version of himself he used to be. The need to control, to dominate, to prove something—those things faded. Now he simply allowed himself to feel, to receive, to exist in the moment. By the time the night ended, he was exhausted but calm in a way he hadn’t known before. On Sunday morning, he stood in front of the mirror after a shower. He studied his massive, hairy body—his belly hanging heavily over his thighs, his softened chest, the thick layer of hair covering him. He no longer saw the superficial gym-focused man chasing muscle and validation. He saw someone softer, calmer. Someone who was finally himself. He smiled at his reflection. He was grateful to Milan for helping him discover this version of himself. Monday he spent at the pool—now his favorite place. Looks, brief touches, occasional invitations to the sauna. He noticed that the pace of his weight gain had slowed. His body was no longer trying to grow wildly—it was settling, stabilizing, adapting to its new life. When he descended into the lab for the last time on Friday, the scale showed 181 kg. Only five kilos in a week. Neither of them minded. Milan praised him, fed him slowly, almost carefully—forkfuls, fingers, sometimes directly from the plate. Václav felt the familiar wave of warmth spread through him. When he was full, he sank into a heavy, satisfied stillness, letting the moment stretch out as long as it wanted. Time seemed to blur again—food, presence, closeness, the quiet rhythm of breath and heartbeat. When it was over, Milan handed him the papers—his credits, signed and complete. His studies finished. And then the offer. “Stay. Be my assistant. We still have a lot of work ahead of us.” Václav smiled. For the first time in a long time, he felt whole. “Yes,” he said quietly. “I’d like that.” When he left the lab, his belly swayed with each step, his legs ached with a deep, pleasant heaviness, and his mind was calm. The experiment was over. His new life was just beginning.

The Grey Vale and Its Heroes

Matthew’s story is bound to a place known as the Grey Vale — a small town, more a large village, lying at the foot of the mountains. These mountains were thickly forested, and the locals called them the Moon Grove. The forest was not vast. On horseback, one could cross it in two days, but it was old. So old that it had its own druids, and that in its heart dwelled a being the locals simply called the God of the Forest. He was not mighty like the gods of temples and chronicles, but he was alive — born of long centuries of reverence, sacrifice, and balance between the forest and humankind. Matthew’s story, however, does not begin with his birth. It begins with an act so shameful that no one would have expected it from people who had, for generations, considered themselves guardians of balance. The God of the Forest was just. He punished thieves and hunters who took more than their share and showed no respect for the grove. In return, he protected the people of the Vale and, through a spring tended by the druids, healed both body and soul. His only demand was a single sacrifice once every generation — one chosen by him — so that he could be reborn in the blood of the selected. For centuries, the pact held. The people of the Grey Vale knew of it and honored it. Then the finger of the God fell upon Eirin of the Moon Grove. Eirin was a moon-blooded half-elf, as was Ia of the Grey Vale, the son of the local reeve. They had known each other since childhood — from childish teasing grew friendship, and from that, during adolescence, a deeper bond. But when word spread that Eirin had been chosen as the sacrifice, a wave of resistance swept through the Vale. The young men refused to accept her fate. Led by Ia, they marched into the forest. The druids, branded as treacherous servants hungry for human blood, were slaughtered, and the rest driven away. Eirin was “rescued” and brought back to the Vale. With the exception of a few elders, their deed was hailed as heroic. At the next full moon, a wedding was held. And here the story could have ended — had it been a happy one. Mathaei was born into an apparently happy family and could have lived a carefree life. But something began to go wrong during his childhood. Without the druids, the God of the Forest weakened. He could barely maintain the remnants of his power, and with him, the Moon Grove began to wither. Animals that had once avoided humans began attacking travelers. The healing spring ran dry. By the time Mathaei was five, passing through the forest to the Vale had become nearly impossible. The elders began to whisper — and later to speak openly — that this was punishment for breaking the ancient pact. They blamed Ia and those who had taken part in the expedition into the forest. The druids remained silent. And passage through the grove was paid for in blood. Mathaei’s parents resisted at first. Eventually, under the pressure of fear and the anger of others, they sought out a seer to peer into fate. Her prophecy was cruel and clear. The breaking of the pact demanded the blood of those who had broken it. But then the seer spoke a second prophecy — meant only for Mathaei’s parents. She said that Mathaei carried within himself the power of the God of the Forest, and that this power would cost them their lives. Both words weighed on them like stone. To sacrifice all those who had freed Eirin would have meant depriving the village of half its men. They kept the prophecy to themselves. In the end, they made a decision. The decision to sacrifice their own son — to return strength to the God, and to spare the blood of the others.

The Prophecy and the Sacrifice

Mathaei remembered it even years later. He was not yet seven when he set out into the forest with his parents. He knew the Moon Grove was evil. He also knew it would never harm him. This was not his first journey — and, unknown to his parents, not even his first night spent beneath its shadow. He dreamed of the forest. By day and by night. But he was small, and no one took his words seriously. More often, they scolded and dismissed him. They did not know that in his dreams he had spent more time among the trees than most adults would in a lifetime. That was why he was glad when he finally stepped onto its soil. He thought it an adventure. As if the forest ran in his blood. From the very first step of the horse he sat upon before his father, he knew where every tree stood and where every path led. They traveled a route unmarked by human or horse. At times they had to dismount and continue on foot. He saw that his parents were uneasy. They did not feel it as he did — no sense of adventure. Sometimes he noticed his mother crying. Then he took her hand, squeezed it, and with childish innocence told her not to be afraid. As long as she was with him, nothing would happen to her. She always tried to smile. He did not yet know why. At dusk, the wolves howled. A pack followed in their tracks. The parents now had to walk, and his father carried him in his arms at times. His legs were short, and they were in a hurry. When the moon broke through the clouds, they reached a small clearing. There stood a circle of nine stones. A tenth lay at its center. He remembered the cold of the stone and the silence that swallowed him. He was not afraid. Only aware that the place was old and forgotten. His parents told him to wait for them. That here, nothing would harm him. He had no reason not to trust them. He saw tears in their eyes, but did not know they were tears of fear. He was only a child. He began to feel fear only when the forest echoed with terrible sounds of struggle and pain, carrying from the place where his parents had gone to seek a path. He did not know that he had been right. Had they stayed with him, they might have lived. The forest punished them for their guilt. It soothed part of its anger, but it did not restore its strength. Mathaei was found by the remaining four druids several days later. He slept in the stone circle, surrounded by a wolf pack. The bodies of the wolves warmed him, and none of them harmed him. The druids took it as a sign.

Mathaei Among the Druids

Mathaei was taken under the protection of the druids. He knew his parents were gone. It was not a thought that haunted him — rather a quiet certainty of a child who simply knows. He was sad, but even sadness does not last forever. Those few days when the wolves protected him were enough to shake him out of shock. And then there was the forest. Endless, alive, full of scents and sounds. A world to explore. The forest became his home. And Mathaei felt that the forest was glad he was there — as if he were something it had been missing. He did not feel the bond as the druids did — not as service, not as reverence for something higher. It was more like the meeting of two kindred souls. The forest was not his master. It was his reflection. That was when the sorcerer awakened within him. The druids sensed that his magic was different. Alien to their orders, but not hostile. They did not wish to lose him, and so when he was ten — old enough to understand — they began to teach him the ways of the druids. Mathaei… or rather Matthew, because the druids mangled his elven name so long that he himself abandoned it… was not a good student. Not in their eyes. Had he had a true master, he might have become a capable sorcerer. But he had none. He had to take druidic teaching apart first, and only then reassemble it — in his own way. In the end, at fifteen, the forest had a new druid. A Druid of the Moon. The elder druids could breathe easier. The forest once again had a young guardian. And Matthew loved the forest. Still, he felt that beyond its borders lay a wider world. And at seventeen, the forest began to feel… small. With the blessing of the Elders, he set out. He sought other druids, other groves, old ties and new paths of understanding. Yet his heart led him back before winter. In spring, he left again. He did not know that when he returned, the forest would be silent. He was gone for a year. When he came back, he found only one druid left — on his deathbed. The old druid revealed the truth the Elders had hidden even from themselves: despite all their efforts, the forest was dying. The balance had been broken more deeply than they could mend. And so he sent Matthew back into the world. To find the seeds of trees that carried within them the power to restore life to the forest. When the druid died, Matthew buried him with his own hands. He took the staff they had once made for him and looked one last time upon the forest that had raised him. Then he stepped forward. Not as an apprentice. Not merely as a druid. But as one who shared his soul with the forest — and would not let it die.

The Birth of the Forest of the Blood Moon

Matthew traveled through a world that was beginning to change. There was too much armament, too much violence, too much sorrow. As a druid, he learned to avoid trouble. He moved through the land like a lone wolf, under the cover of night. He spoke more with animals than with people. At first, he feared humans — their noise, their scents, their chaos. Later, curiosity overcame him. If he was to fulfill his vow, he had to speak with them. Listen to their stories. Ease their pain, even when he himself had no answers. After five years, he returned home. And his heart broke.

The Grey Vale had turned into barracks. Military training camps had sunk into the village like a parasite feeding on its host. The people were weary, broken, empty. And the forest… The cut and burned areas looked like black cancer. The sacred site lay in ruins, stones overturned, the circle broken. With tears in his eyes, he sat upon one of the stones. He did not know how long he sat there. Time lost all meaning. He was disturbed by the call of a patrol. Three men. Three corpses. Something broke within Matthew. He was not just a druid. He was the forest. The forest flowed through his veins, breathed through his lungs, screamed with his voice. And they… they were an infection. Perhaps they were innocent. Perhaps they merely followed orders. But they would not be the last. And a druid who allows rot to spread is no guardian — he is an accomplice. Matthew plunged into grief and seized both the pain and the fury of the forest. And he began to punish. He was untouchable. Dangerous. Bloody. Where the forest once bore the name Moon Grove, another name remained after his wrath. The Grove of the Blood Moon. Into soil soaked with blood, he planted the seeds of trees. He let them grow, fed by anger and the memory of the place. And only when the forest returned — not to its gentle form, but to one truly cruel, capable of defending itself — did Matthew find peace. Not joy. Only satisfaction. He felt sorrow. But deep within, he knew that the part of his being that belonged to the forest was content. He himself felt only confusion. Where did the forest end, and where did Matthew begin? What was the forest’s wrath — and what was his own pain? He knew only one thing: he could not stay. He entrusted the Grove to beasts, spirits, and the shadows between the trees. And with his staff in hand, he set out in search of answers. Because some wounds do not heal in silence. And some questions cannot be asked of trees.

Meet Karl.

But with the start of March, something changed. John began a new steroid cycle—it wasn't a secret, he talked about it openly, as part of his gym life where he wanted to push his limits. "I need it for strength at work," he explained one evening while preparing the injection, and Peter nodded, knowing what he was getting into. He noticed it quickly—John's libido shot up like a rocket, suddenly the calm bear was full of energy, his touches more demanding, kisses deeper. His sweat scent changed too—it became more intense, more masculine, with that chemical undertone Peter recognized from the "memories" of his previous steroid phase experienced thanks to the ring. It was the same rough, attractive aroma that now enveloped John after every workout, and Peter felt it when he cuddled up to him, mixed with the new desire that drove him forward. John was in the second half of the cycle when it happened—that moment Peter subconsciously expected but hoped to avoid. After the last two weeks, John became more explosive in the gym, his usual calm strength turning into something wild, uncontrollable. The steroids started affecting his behavior—those injections he gave himself in the thigh with the same routine as fixing an engine now pumped not just muscles, but also aggression. John knew it, talked about it openly: "I have to watch it, kid, but this time it'll be fine." But it wasn't.

Peter tried to calm him—in the gym, when John growled at a weight that seemed too light, or in the evening at home, when he returned from the workshop breathless and nervous. At first, it went fairly well: light touches on the shoulder, words like "Breathe, love, it's just a phase," and John calmed down, smiled with his bearish grin, and hugged him. But then came a sudden explosion in the gym locker room when his locker lock jammed. It was an ordinary moment—the key stuck, John pulled harder, and suddenly it snapped. "Fuck!" he roared, his voice booming like thunder in the small space, and his fist slammed into the locker with such force that it dented. "Calm down. Breathe!" Peter tried to soothe him, stepping closer, hand extended in a calming gesture. But John swung his massive fist—it was a reflex, the roid rage that overtook him like a storm. Peter barely dodged the first blow, the wind from it ruffling his hair. The second he took on the shoulder—the pain was sharp, like a hammer strike, shooting down to his bones, and he staggered. It hurt, but it was enough to slow John a bit, as if the physical feedback pierced the fog in his head. Peter didn't wait—he grabbed John's wrist, twisted his arms behind his back, tackled him to the ground with surprising strength given by the ring, and sat on him, holding him firmly. John deflated after a moment—the rage exhausted like a storm that came and went. He lay there on the ground, breathing raggedly, chest heaving and falling in quick rhythm, sweat streaming down his forehead into his beard. Peter heard the commotion behind him—other guys from the gym gathered at the locker room door, whispering, someone reaching for their phone. He just raised his hand for them to leave—it was a gesture saying "we've got this under control," and they obeyed, leaving slowly, letting them be alone. Peter got off John, turned him onto his back, and knelt beside him, hand on his shoulder. "All good now?" he whispered, voice full of concern but also love. John opened his eyes, those brown ones now full of regret, and nodded. "Sorry, kid… this… this isn't me." He stood slowly, hugged Peter tightly but gently this time, as if afraid to break him. "I have to stop this," he whispered into his hair. Peter nodded, feeling the pain in his shoulder pulsing like a reminder, but knowing this was just a phase—their relationship was stronger than steroids. They left the gym together, hand in hand, and talked long into the night at home.

John promised to stop but wanted to finish the cycle—"Just a few more weeks, kid, and then stop," he said that evening after the incident, as they sat at his place with an ice pack on Peter's shoulder. He was now much more cautious, watching every word in the gym, avoiding heavy sets that could enrage him, and even noting his moods in a notebook, as if it were part of his "training." The awareness that Peter could pacify him—that young kid who looked like a top athlete but was still the skinny bookworm underneath—kept him more in check. "I don't want to repeat it," John admitted, and his eyes, usually full of that rough humor, now held a shadow of regret from past years. In reality, it surprised Peter too. Still, even under that layer of muscles the ring had given him, he was the original bookworm who never fought and preferred to flee from conflict—running to books, to stories where heroes solved problems with wisdom, not fists. Now he asked himself: "How did I do that? Was it the ring that gave me the strength, or was it really in me, just waiting for the right moment?" Whatever it was, he was actually glad for it—that feeling of protecting someone he loves gave him new confidence he hadn't had before.