Then the pain hit.

A sharp, stabbing throb behind Y/n's eyes, like a migraine had taken up residence overnight and brought friends. Every muscle ached. Every bone felt wrong—too light, too dense, somehow both at once.

The memory surfaced in fragments. The field trip. The genetics lab. The spider.

A spider that had crawled up Y/n's arm, and before anyone could brush it off, had sunk its fangs into the soft skin of the wrist. The scientist had gasped. Y/n had screamed. The guide had said something about a recently imported specimen.

Then the bus ride home, head pounding, vision blurring, Mj's voice somewhere far away asking you okay? and Ned's hand on Y/n's shoulder, steadying, concerned.

And now, morning. Pale sunlight creeping through the blinds. The bedroom ceiling familiar and safe, except for the inexplicable feeling that the world had shifted.

On the nightstand, Y/n's phone buzzed. Three messages.

The first, from Ned, read: Dude. You okay? You looked rough yesterday.

The second, from Mj, read: You passed out on the bus. Ned carried you. Don't make this weird.

The third, from an unknown number, read: Good morning. You'll want to come to the lab. Don't worry—we'll explain. — T.S.

A pause. Then another message came through from the same unknown number, a string of coordinates and a time: 8:30 AM. Come alone.

The clock clicked over to 7:00.