Chapter 1: The Green Pill
The pill was the color of toxic algae, and it dissolved on her tongue before she could even think to gag. A bitter, chalky paste coated her throat.
“All of it, Nancy. Don’t be a baby,” Lewis said, his voice a smug purr from the bathroom doorway. He held his phone up, the screen glaring. A frozen image of her, from last month’s holiday party, blurred and compromising. “One little drink for a little delete. Fair trade.”
The water from the gold-leaf faucet was cold. She gulped it straight from her cupped hands, the liquid spilling down her chin, soaking the pristine collar of her blue button-up. Her reflection in the obsidian-framed mirror was a study in pale misery: mousy brown hair limp around her face, eyes wide and washed-out blue, skin the texture of printer paper. She looked exactly like what she was—a twenty-seven-year-old accounts processor who got blackmailed by her boss in his opulent bathroom because she’d had two too many sangrias and believed him when he said the supply closet was soundproof.
“See? Not so bad,” Lewis chuckled, adjusting his cheap tie over his potbelly. He leaned against the doorframe, blocking the only exit. The room smelled of his expensive bergamot cologne and something older, a damp mineral scent seeping from the marble. “Now we wait. Should be fun.”
A twist, deep in her gut. Not nausea. Something else. A internal unspooling.
She gasped, hands flying to her stomach. Her fingers pressed against the starched cotton of her shirt, and she felt the fabric strain.
“Whoa,” Lewis murmured, straightening up. The phone in his hand lowered slightly.
It wasn’t pain. It was pressure. A relentless, expanding heat, pouring into her limbs, flooding her veins. She looked at her hands, splayed on the cold marble vanity. The bones seemed to darken, shadows deepening beneath the skin. Then the skin itself… it tightened. It shimmered. A sickly, vibrant green blossomed from her knuckles, racing up her wrists like a fast-moving stain.
“No,” she whispered, but her voice was already wrong. Thicker.
Her shoulders hitched. A sharp, tearing sound—the crisp pop of a thread, then another. She stared at her reflection as the seams of her shirt began to split, one by one, across her back. The blue fabric strained over a topography of muscle that was not hers. Her shoulders broadened, pushing outward, rolling with a crackle of settling bone. Her chest swelled, the buttons pinging off the mirror with little tinks. The white cotton of her bra dimpled, stretched, and then the center clasp gave way with a definitive snap.
“Okay,” Lewis said, his voice losing its smirk. “Okay, that’s… faster than last time.”
Last time? The thought was a dart, lost in the roar of the change.
Her pencil skirt was next. A sharp, zipping tear as her hips flared outward, the black wool surrendering without a fight. The constricting band around her thighs vanished as they thickened, solidifying into powerful columns. A sensation of incredible, itching growth flooded her legs. She heard the raspy shriek of her pantyhose disintegrating into a web of useless nylon strands, falling away like shed skin. Her feet burned, cramped, then spread. The elegant arches of her black high heels snapped sideways, the heels breaking clean off as her bare, now-wide feet met the cold floor.
A wild, prickling heat shot up her spine into her scalp. She grabbed at her hair, pulling clumps of it in front of her eyes. The mousy brown was gone, replaced by a thick, ropy mane of deep emerald, cascading over her suddenly massive shoulders. Her face in the mirror was a stranger’s—the structure brutally altered, jaw squared, cheekbones prominent shelves, lips full and pulled back from teeth that felt too sharp. Her skin was a uniform, vibrant green, smooth and tough like cured leather. And her eyes… they glowed. A luminous, radioactive green that lit the hollows of her new face.
The timid fear was gone. Incinerated. In its place was a furnace of sensation. Power thrummed in every cord of muscle, a delicious, crackling energy. And underneath it, pulsing in time with her jugular heartbeat, was a raw, aggressive hunger. Not for food. For touch. For pressure. For dominance.
She turned from the mirror. The movement was not her own—it was fluid, predatory, a shift of immense weight on silent feet.
Lewis had backed into the master bedroom, his face the color of the marble. His phone was forgotten, dangling from his hand. “Nancy? Sweetheart? You… you feel okay? You remember our deal, right?” He tried on his manager smile. It was a ghastly thing.
She took a step forward. The remnants of her clothes—the torn shirt, the shredded skirt, the snapped bra—fell away from her green form. Her white panties, stretched beyond recognition, finally gave their last elastic sigh and dropped to her ankles. She kicked them aside, the gesture effortless.
“Deal,” she said. Her voice was a low rumble, a quarry sound. It felt good in her new throat.
“Y-yes! The video. I delete it. See?” He fumbled with the phone, thumbs slipping. “I’m deleting it right now. We’re good. All good.” He was lying. She could smell the lie on him, a sour tang beneath the bergamot.
Another step. The distance between them closed. He was so small. His receding hairline gleamed with sweat. His potbelly strained against his shirt.
“You made me this,” she rumbled, not with accusation, but with a kind of awed pleasure. The hornet’s nest of need in her core buzzed louder. He had done this. This pathetic, preening man.
“I improved you!” he squeaked, holding up the phone like a tiny shield. “I gave you power! You should be thanking me! You can be my bodyguard, my enforcer, we’ll—“
Her hand shot out, not to strike him, but to cup the back of his bald head. Her fingers, large and powerful, almost enveloped his skull. The sensation of his warm, fragile skin under her palm was electric. A bolt of pure, carnal fury shot through her.
“Thank you,” she growled, and pulled him toward her.
It wasn’t a kiss. It was a collision. A claiming. His muffled scream was a vibration against her lips. He beat his fists against her shoulders, her chest, the blows as ineffective as moths. She drank in his shock, his terror, his absolute submission. The furnace inside her roared, unsatisfied. This was a start. A tiny, tasty appetizer.
When she released him, he stumbled back, gagging, lips bruised. He stared at her, truly seeing the monster for the first time. The glowing eyes, the fanged smile, the sheer, impossible bulk of her blocking the light from the en suite.
“Oh, God,” he whimpered, a dark patch spreading on the front of his trousers.
She inhaled deeply, the scent of his fear intoxicating. The world outside this gilded cage of an apartment was a dull roar. Cars, people, life. So much life. So much… potential.
She looked from the broken man to the floor-to-ceiling window leading to his penthouse balcony. The city glittered, a spread of tiny lights begging to be crushed.
With a laugh that started as a hum and ended as a seismic tremor, she turned from Lewis. She walked, not to the door, but toward the glass wall. Her bare green feet left faint impressions in the plush cream carpet.
“Wait! Where are you going?” he cried, a last, pathetic grasp for control.
She didn’t answer. She drew back a fist, marveling at the play of powerful muscle under smooth green skin. The need was a directive now, simple and clear. Go out. Feel more. Take everything.
Her fist flew forward.
The explosion of shattering glass was the most beautiful music she had ever heard.