Diary Entry: C-C-Changing

The agony did not come in the form of a shout or a wound. It crept in quietly, like icy air seeping under the edge of a doorway, unnoticed at first—a pain somewhere deep, something he could have sworn he could ignore. A strain at the base of his neck. A tightness in his jaw. A hollowness in his chest that wasn't quite breathlessness but wasn't right, either.

Edward stayed in the middle of the hall, motionless. It had been nearly an hour since he uttered the words—Then let us begin—and still nothing had happened. No lightning bolt. No seizure fit. Only… a waiting.

And then, it gained strength.

A dull ache crept into the bones at the rear of his eyes, as though his skull was too tight to accommodate the silent combat in his head. He pinched thumb and forefinger into his forehead, trying to subdue the pulse—but it wouldn't relent. It increased. It traveled.

He took one step forward and stopped at once.

His knees sagged under him slightly. Not due to failure, but due to battle. As though his own flesh had become foreign terrain, unfamiliar with reaction.

A new pain—this one in his ribs. He inhaled sharply, and something coiled, too tight and too deep to discern. A spring tightening along his back, coiled and coiled like a clock ticking towards detonation.

Edward gritted his teeth and pushed on.

He leaned as far as the tabletop before doubling over, his palms bracing against the wood. Pressure accumulated within him—knife-edged, then numb, knife-edged again. It coursed like ocean tides under skin, never remaining static. His forearms burned. His shoulders groaned as if he'd been hanging over the side of a ledge for hours.

But still, he did not perceive wounds. No bruising. No change. But it was agony--grinding, creeping, inward.

"God—" he panted, then faltered. His voice rang strangely in the quiet. Raw.

His belly writhed up in a sudden curl, as though his guts were tossing themselves through slow motion. Not queasiness—it was horribleness, a substance of the body that revolted. Something of the animal recoiled. Something of the meat in him began to thrash.

Let it pass, a voice whispered—not aloud, but within his own mind. The Shadow Man.

Edward tightened his fists. "Don't tell me to calm down. You're not the one experiencing this."

You wanted this. You agreed.

"I agreed to transform," Edward bit out between gritted teeth. "Not to be flayed alive from the inside out."

There was no response.

He crawled to the floor. Searing hot skin met cold tile. His back convulsed with pain, hitch of breath in short, rasping gasps. No tears—only sweat, and more sweat, drips running from his temples, dampening his chest.

Minutes. Or hours. Time lost form.

His whole self throbbed. His hips ached like he'd done a marathon in chains. His backbone cramp-twisted, small and pricking, repeatedly like lengths of muscle inflicting shocks from static. His jaw locked; his tongue felt salt and iron.

But worst of all was his heart.

Not the body one, but the space where his self dwelled—the space where fear lived. It didn't pulse to rhythm, but to heft. Apprehension. His body was slamming doors shut behind him. Locking them. Something fundamental was coming to a close. And he had no clue what would be behind.

He doubled over onto the tile, teeth clattering now—not with cold, but with sheer effort at remaining in this in-between state.

"I can't…" he gasped. "I can't do this."

But already he knew he could. Because he was still alive. Still awake. Still himself.

And that frightened him more than anything.

Because if this was just the beginning of it, if the pain that seared at his joints and carved jagged furrows of tension across his brow was only the start, then what came next?

The answer was silence.

Not of the Shadow Man—ever present, but he was—it was from within his own body. No mercy. No explanations. Only hurt. Only the unyielding, merciless touch of transformation to transformation.

The pain did not crest. It did not surge. It merely existed. Persistent. Grating. An anthem of suffering that pounded itself into bone and muscle and mind.

He passed out at some point.

Not out of frailty. Out of exhaustion. Out of sheerly the fact that a human brain—whatever else it is—is never configured to stay awake through a war waged in its own flesh.

When he woke, it was night. There was quiet in the room. The agony remained.

Less sharp. But more substantial.

Like he'd been filled with lead.

Edward didn't try to stand. He just lay there, listening to the breath in his lungs and wondering if it still belonged to him.

And far away—or maybe very near—the Shadow Man watched through dim reflections, his presence like the edge of a blade resting gently against Edward's throat.

We've only just begun, he whispered.