Chapter 3: The Primal Hunger

The stress hit me the moment I stepped back into Liam's apartment.

It started as a tremor in my hands, barely noticeable as I fumbled with the keys. But by the time I'd closed the door behind me, my entire body was vibrating with a frequency that felt distinctly inhuman. The borrowed flesh that had been my prison for weeks suddenly felt like it was coming apart at the seams.

I stumbled to the bathroom, gripping the sink for support. The face in the mirror—Liam's face—flickered like a damaged hologram. For a split second, I saw something else underneath: a writhing darkness with features that refused to hold their shape, eyes that were less sight than void, a mouth that stretched too wide and held too many teeth.

Then it snapped back to Liam's familiar features, but the damage was done. Whatever I was, whatever force of will or cosmic accident had allowed me to wear this skin, it was failing.

The hunger rose with the fear.

It wasn't the kind of hunger that food could satisfy. I'd learned that the hard way in those first confused days, forcing down meals that turned to ash in my mouth while the gnawing emptiness in my chest only grew stronger. This was something deeper, more primal—a need that reached past flesh and bone to something fundamentally human that I couldn't name but desperately craved.

My phone buzzed. Another message from my watcher.

"Getting harder to hold the mask in place? The stress is showing. Even from across the street, I can see you flickering around the edges like a bad special effect."

I looked toward the window, but the curtains were drawn. It didn't matter. Cameras, telephoto lenses, or just supernatural perception—somehow, they could see me falling apart in real time.

"You need to feed soon, don't you? Before you lose cohesion entirely. Lucky for you, dinner invitations are so much easier to accept when you're desperate."

As if summoned by the words, my phone rang. The caller ID showed "Mom" with a heart emoji—Mrs. Henderson's contact info, programmed by a son who would never call her again.

I let it ring twice before answering, not trusting my voice to remain stable.

"Hi, Mom."

"Liam, honey! I was just calling to see if you wanted to come over for dinner tonight instead of waiting until Sunday. Your father picked up some beautiful salmon from the market, and you know how Chloe gets when her favorite brother doesn't visit often enough."

The invitation hung in the air like salvation and damnation rolled into one. I needed to refuse—I was falling apart, unstable, potentially dangerous. But the hunger clawed at my insides with increasing urgency, and some instinct I didn't understand told me that proximity to people who loved Liam might be exactly what I needed.

"I..." My voice cracked, and I had to clear my throat. "Actually, that sounds great. What time?"

"Seven-thirty? I know it's short notice, but—"

"Perfect. I'll be there."

I hung up and immediately regretted it. The relief in her voice had been genuine, warm, loving—all the things I was incapable of returning. But the decision was made, and the alternative was continuing to deteriorate alone in this apartment filled with another man's life.

The next few hours crawled by like years. I tried to distract myself with television, but the faces on screen seemed to mock me with their effortless humanity. I attempted to eat something, anything, but my body rejected food with increasing violence. By six o'clock, I was dry-heaving into the toilet while my reflection in the bathroom tiles shifted and writhed like something trying to escape from behind glass.

The drive to the Henderson house was a nightmare of careful control. Every red light was an eternity where I might lose cohesion completely. Every glimpse of myself in the rearview mirror showed the cracks spreading wider, the borrowed features becoming less stable. By the time I pulled into the familiar driveway, I was running on sheer will and desperation.

The house stood before me like a beacon—warm light spilling from windows, the sound of laughter drifting through thin walls. A perfect suburban tableau that I was about to corrupt with my presence.

Mrs. Henderson met me at the door with a smile that could have powered a small city.

"There's my boy!" She pulled me into a hug before I could protest, and the moment her arms wrapped around me, something extraordinary happened.

The hunger receded.

Not entirely—it still gnawed at the edges of my consciousness like a living thing—but the desperate, clawing need that had been consuming me suddenly became manageable. The trembling in my hands stopped. The flickering at the corners of my vision stabilized.

Her love, warm and unconditional and absolutely genuine, flowed into me like water into a desert. I could feel it settling into the hollow spaces inside me, filling cracks I hadn't even known existed. For the first time in weeks, my reflection felt solid, real, unquestionably human.

"Mom," I breathed, and meant it in a way that terrified me.

She pulled back to study my face, and whatever she saw there made her expression soften with concern. "You look thin, honey. Have you been eating enough? And you're so pale..."

"Just work stress," I lied, but the lie felt different now. Less like deception and more like protection—shielding her from truths that would shatter her world.

"Well, come on. Dinner will fix that right up."

She led me into the dining room, where the rest of the family was already gathered. Mr. Henderson stood at the head of the table, carving salmon with the focused precision of a man who took pride in providing for his family. He looked up as we entered, and his smile was warm but tired—the expression of someone carrying burdens he couldn't share.

"Liam! Good to see you, son. How's work treating you?"

"Can't complain," I replied, settling into what was apparently my usual chair. The simple act of being welcomed, of belonging somewhere, sent another wave of stabilizing energy through me.

And then there was Chloe.

She sat across from me, blonde hair perfectly styled, bright blue eyes that seemed to catalog every detail of my appearance with unsettling intensity. She was beautiful in the way that college girls often were—fresh-faced and optimistic, with the kind of smile that could sell toothpaste or launch political campaigns.

"Hey, big brother," she said, but there was something off in her tone. A careful quality, like she was testing the words for authenticity. "You seem... different tonight."

The observation sent a chill through me, but before I could respond, Mrs. Henderson was bustling around the table, filling plates with salmon and roasted vegetables and asking questions about my day. The familiar rhythm of family dinner washed over me, and I let myself sink into it like a warm bath.

With each laugh, each casual touch as dishes were passed, each moment of genuine affection directed toward the son they thought I was, the hunger retreated further. My reflection in the polished surface of my water glass looked perfectly human—no flickering, no wavering, just Liam Henderson enjoying dinner with his loving family.

But Chloe kept watching.

"So," she said during a lull in conversation, "remember that time in high school when you got caught sneaking out to see that girl from Roosevelt High? What was her name again?"

The question hung in the air like a trap. I could feel all three of them watching me, waiting for recognition that would never come. Mrs. Henderson's expression was curious and fond, clearly remembering the incident. Mr. Henderson was trying not to smile, probably recalling his own teenage adventures. And Chloe...

Chloe's eyes were sharp as glass, cutting through my careful facade to the emptiness beneath.

"I..." I started, then forced a laugh. "God, that was so long ago. What made you think of that?"

"Just reminiscing," she said lightly, but her smile didn't reach her eyes. "Funny how memory works, isn't it? Sometimes the most important moments just... slip away."

The way she said 'slip away' made my skin crawl. There was knowledge in her voice, understanding that went deeper than sibling teasing. But before I could analyze it further, Mrs. Henderson was launching into a story about her own teenage years, and the moment passed.

Dinner continued, and with it, the blessed relief of belonging. Each smile directed at me, each casual inclusion in family jokes I didn't understand, every moment of being treated as someone worthy of love—it all fed the thing inside me that craved human connection. By the time we moved to the living room for coffee and dessert, I felt more stable than I had in weeks.

But stability came with its own kind of horror.

As Mrs. Henderson fussed over me, making sure I was comfortable, adjusting cushions and bringing me extra blankets because I "looked cold," I realized what was happening. I wasn't just pretending to be her son—I was feeding off her maternal love, drawing strength from emotions that belonged to a dead man.

I was a parasite.

The thought should have disgusted me, should have sent me fleeing into the night to spare them from my toxic presence. Instead, it filled me with a satisfaction so profound it was almost sexual. This was what I needed. This was how I survived.

This was what I was built for.

"You know," Mr. Henderson said from his recliner, "I was thinking we should plan a family vacation this summer. Maybe that cabin up at Lake Tahoe we used to rent when you kids were younger. What do you think, Liam?"

Lake Tahoe. Another memory I should have but didn't, another piece of history that belonged to someone else. But the way he looked at me when he said it—hopeful, loving, wanting to create new memories with his son—sent another wave of nourishing energy through me.

"That sounds perfect, Dad."

The word came out easier this time, less forced. And when he smiled, when his whole face lit up with paternal pride and affection, I felt myself growing stronger, more solid, more real.

Across the room, Chloe was still watching.

As the evening wound down, I found myself reluctant to leave. The hunger had been reduced to a manageable whisper, but I could feel it stirring again at the thought of returning to that empty apartment. Here, surrounded by love and warmth and the illusion of family, I felt almost human.

Almost.

"Drive safely," Mrs. Henderson said as she walked me to the door. "And don't be such a stranger, okay? A mother worries."

She hugged me again, and once more I felt that rush of stabilizing energy. But this time, something else came with it—a flash of memory that didn't belong to me.

A younger version of this woman, tears streaming down her face as she held a small boy who was crying over a scraped knee. "It's okay, baby. Mommy's here. Mommy will always be here."

The memory was so vivid, so real, that for a moment I could taste the salt of childhood tears and feel the absolute security of unconditional love. But it wasn't my memory. It was Liam's, somehow transmitted through the emotional connection we shared.

"I love you, Mom," I whispered, and meant it more than I'd ever meant anything.

She squeezed me tighter. "I love you too, sweetheart. So much."

Behind her, framed in the living room doorway, Chloe stood watching us with an expression I couldn't quite read. There was something hungry in her eyes, possessive in a way that made my borrowed skin crawl.

But that was a problem for another night. Right now, I was fed, stable, and almost human enough to fool myself.

The drive home passed in a blur of streetlights and late-night radio. It wasn't until I was back in Liam's apartment, staring at my solid, unwavering reflection in the bathroom mirror, that the full implications of what had happened hit me.

I wasn't just an imposter hiding among humans. I was something that fed on their love, their emotions, their most precious connections. And worse—I was getting better at it.

My phone buzzed one final time.

"Well done. You're learning. But family dinners won't be enough forever. The hunger always grows. Sweet dreams, monster."

I turned off the lights and lay down in Liam's bed, surrounded by photos of a life I'd never lived. But for the first time since I'd opened my eyes in this borrowed skin, I felt almost at peace.

The hunger was still there, would always be there, but now I knew how to feed it.

And that knowledge should have terrified me more than it did.