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You walk up to the man and lean near him.

"Sir, are you alright?" you ask. "Are you hurt?"

The man rises and turns toward you. A yellowish film of sweat covers his face, and he presses a bloody towel against his neck. He mouths the words "help me" and reaches out with curled fingers ending hard, brown nails.

"I don't have a phone or I'd call 911. Do you want me to help you to your apartment?" you say, but as you reach out to help him, his body goes limp. He crashes to the ground and gurgles and expels a green mucus in a wide spray. You leap back from the liquid, and crash against the wall. He screams and arches his back, mouth stretched open. The man's eyes roll back, and the whites of his eyes turn green. Brown sludge bubbles out of his mouth, and puffs of air blow it over his chin and cheeks. His body twists at the spine and hips, his fingers fan out and elongate, and legs and arms angle against their joints. The man twitches uncontrollably, shouting and crying with each movement. You think of running back to the apartment, but there is no phone available to call for help.

And then the man stops thrashing. His back stiffens, and limbs go limp. His eyes close and face softens, as if the peace of death has washed over him. The hallway is silent and still.

You lean against the wall and wipe sweat from your forehead. What just happened? Is he truly dead? A cool breeze blows through the corridor, and though you wonder what will become of this dead man, your thoughts turn to Emma. You need to contact her and—

While you contemplate your next move, the man sits up. Tiny red irises appear through the green liquid of his eyes. Dark yellow skin has replaced the pale tone, and green splotches spread around his face and neck like leaking dye from his pores. Bones arch out, and the limbs appear misshapen, with ligaments and muscles poking out above the skin, contracted and contorted. His head turns in one long swivel, eyes locking on you.