The late afternoon painted the sky over the city a steely blue. Evan Roberts walked along the sidewalk, tapping his fingers on a plastic grocery bag. Inside dangled a packet of pasta, a jar of sauce, a package of chicken breasts—a dreary three-night meal plan. At twenty-three, he'd been living alone for two years in a rented one-room apartment on the outskirts, far from his parents and their measured provincial life. He cherished this independence, even if it smelled of dust and, sometimes, loneliness.

He turned onto his street, a quiet one lined with rows of similarly unremarkable brick two-story buildings. His thoughts were elsewhere: about an unfinished project at work, about the need to change the sheets, about the annoying creak of the bathroom door.

That's why he heard it first, and then saw it. The sharp, piercing screech of tires skidding. A dull, animalistic sound of fear that didn't belong to a car.

Evan looked up.

Across the street, an elderly woman stepped out onto the crosswalk, not looking either way. She was carrying a string bag similar to the one his grandmother had. And from the intersection, picking up speed after the turn, a silver sedan sped past. The driver, apparently, didn't see her. Or didn't have time to react.

Evan had no time to think. No time to consider the "why" or the "what if." There were no heroic deeds in his life, only small, everyday acts of kindness: helping a neighbor carry her bags, giving directions, feeding a stray cat. It was as much a part of him as the color of his eyes or the mole on his wrist.

His legs carried him forward on their own, before his brain could even give him the command. The grocery bag flew onto the pavement, the pasta scattering like a fan. He didn't run—he took off, a short, desperate sprint, sweeping away the distance. "Get away!" he shouted, but his voice was drowned out by a fresh screech of brakes.

He slammed his shoulder into the old woman, sending her flying to the sidewalk. She gasped, falling into a spirea bush, her string bag flying off. Evan's world slowed. He saw the sedan's bumper, huge and shiny, fill his entire field of vision. He heard the unbearable, rumbling roar of the engine right next to his ear.

Then there was the impact.

Not pain at first. But the sound. A dull, bone-crunching sound, like dry branches snapping. His body lifted off the ground, describing a short, awkward arc through the air. He saw the flickering of streetlights, a patch of cold sky, and then the sudden approach of gravel and asphalt.

The second impact, hitting the ground, knocked all the air out of his lungs.

And only then did the pain come. Universal, white, starless. It flared in his head, spread through his ribs, arm, leg. He tried to breathe, and something in his chest crunched and ached so hard that his vision went dark. He heard voices, muffled, as if underwater: "Oh my God!" "Call an ambulance!" the cry of that same old woman: "Boy, what's wrong, boy..."

Then the sounds began to fade. The pain turned into a distant, insistent hum. He lay on the cold asphalt, staring at the twilight sky, and thought that perhaps he hadn't bought any milk after all. And also that he shouldn't call his mother, so as not to scare her.

Then blue lights began to flash. Masked faces appeared, sharp but confident hands. The feeling of belts, a tourniquet on his hip, the click of a cervical brace. They lifted him onto a gurney, and the world rocked. The inside of the ambulance smelled of antiseptic and metal. Someone was telling him to hold on. He nodded, or at least thought he nodded. His eyelids felt like lead.

The last thing he remembered before plunging into the void was the doctor's voice on the radio, clipped and clear: "Male, 23, multiple fractures, TBI, open craniocerebral… Prepare the operating room and… approved experimental protocol with the Nectar series. The patient signed a general consent form upon admission. The chances of otherwise… are slim." These words didn't make sense to him. "Experimental" and "protocol" simply hung in his fading consciousness like strange, unfamiliar birds. And then there was silence.

The darkness wasn't complete. It pulsed. Occasionally, it was broken by flashes of light through closed eyelids, snatches of sound: the hiss of equipment, muffled footsteps, voices that rang not with familiar routine but with a restrained, professional tension.

"...basal skull fracture, comminuted femur fracture, six ribs, right arm..."
"...standard stabilization does not guarantee..."
"...approving the use of Protocol Nectar-7. Administer."

Evan couldn't feel his body. It was a distant, broken vessel, barely flickering with a spark. Then a new sensation came—not pain, but a strange, deep warmth, spreading from some point in his chest. It was like a sip of strong alcohol, but from within. The warmth spread through his veins, reaching his fingertips, which he couldn't feel, filling his skull. A slight, barely perceptible itch followed—as if thousands of beads were moving under his skin.

He was falling back into oblivion, but now with this inner, quiet heat.

Awakening was gradual. First, the smell. Not the harsh hospital antiseptic, but something sterile, neutral. Then, the sound of a steady, mechanical heartbeat. The monitor. Then, the realization that he was breathing. On his own. And it wasn't painful.

He opened his eyes. A white ceiling. Out of the corner of his eye, a stand with an IV drip, but not a regular one. A small metal cylinder with a blue LED strip was connected to the saline bag.

A doctor entered the room, an elderly man with a tired but sharp gaze.
"Are you awake, Mr. Roberts?" His voice was even, without much emotion. "You're incredibly lucky." You are the first patient in our region to successfully undergo experimental regenerative therapy.

Evan tried to speak. His throat was dry, but his voice was clear.
"An old lady...?"
"With a fright and a few scratches. She owes her life to you. And you," the doctor paused, "now owe it to her and to us. Your recovery is phenomenal. Fractures are healing at record speed. Internal bleeding has stopped. But everything comes at a price."

He explained. Nanobots. Microscopic machines injected into the bloodstream. They stimulate regeneration, direct stem cells, repair tissue. But they need fuel. Lots of fuel. They consume proteins, fats, carbohydrates, and trace elements directly from the host body.
"If you don't consume enough calories, they will start consuming you. Muscle tissue, fat reserves, and then... they will move on to the organs necessary for life. Your metabolism must now operate at the level of a professional weightlifter. Constantly." Do you understand?

Evan nodded, stunned. His body, whole and almost pain-free, felt foreign. He felt only weakness, a deep, bone-deep fatigue, and... hunger. A quiet but insistent ache in the pit of his stomach.

Two days later, to the amazement of the entire staff, he was discharged. With a list of recommendations, the contact information for his attending physician, and a stern warning: "Eat. Plenty. Always."

***

Returning to his quiet one-room apartment, Evan stood in the middle of the living room. The groceries he'd bought that fateful day were left to rot on the pavement. The apartment was empty. His stomach was empty, too. The memory of the blow, the flight, the white pain was hazy, like a bad dream. But the feeling of internal heat, the same one that had spread through his body in the hospital, remained. And hunger. The hunger grew.

He ordered a pizza. Just one. Then, looking at the box, he remembered the doctor's eyes. "Like a weightlifter." He sighed and added four more to the order. The delivery guy, a teenager with an eyebrow stud, looked at him like he was crazy.

For two days, he lived in a pizza frenzy. He ate, felt a surge of strange, almost feverish energy, dozed off, woke up with a new wave of hunger, and ate again. On the third day, his body rebelled. The nausea didn't come in a wave, but settled inside, a dull, constant heaviness. Pizza began to make him sick. The pills didn't help—they seemed to dissolve before reaching their target, consumed by that same internal heat.

Fear, which hadn't been there at the sight of a speeding car, finally overwhelmed him. He wrote to the doctor. Briefly: "I feel sick. It won't go away. What should I do?"

The answer came quickly: "Stay where you are. Our specialist will be with you to take samples and assess your condition. Nurse Black."

***

And so he stands before the door, listening to the crisp, polite knock. Everything inside is twisted in knots by nausea and the sound. He opens it.

Before him stands the embodiment of professional kindness. Blonde, in a neat beige coat, with a reassuring smile. Alice Black.
"Evan Roberts? I'm from the clinic. Can we talk?"

He lets her in, fussily offering her tea. His world has narrowed to this room, this growing malaise, and her calm voices. She asks questions. She behaves exactly as he imagined the ideal nurse: attentive, compassionate.

He tells her. About the five pizzas. About the nausea. And as he speaks, that very moment flashes through his mind: the screech of tires, the old woman's silhouette, the chill of fear, replaced by determination. He's saving her. And he was saved by these... things inside. And now they might kill him differently.

"A sudden influx of resources," Alice says, her intelligent, analytical gaze sweeping over his face, "could trigger hyperactivity and uncontrolled colony reproduction. The body can't cope with the production of their vitamin. This could cause intoxication and..."

And then the internal heat, smoldering all the while, explodes. A spasm doubles him over. He doesn't emphasize the result, or apologize. The black, living mass bursts forth, and his last coherent thought, laced with pain and horror, becomes a strange association: he rushes forward again, to push someone away from danger. Only this time, the danger is himself, and it has already caught up with him.

I'd just managed to tell Alice about the pizzas when something in my stomach lurched. Not just a rumble, but a deep, rippling spasm, as if an entire ocean had turned over inside me. I cried out, more in surprise than pain, and clutched my stomach.

"Mr. Roberts?" Alice's voice sounded like it was coming from underwater. Her face, full of professional concern, swam before my eyes.

I tried to say, "It's okay," but instead of words, a stream gushed from my mouth. It wasn't yellow, not brown, but thick, oily black, like liquid obsidian. It hit Alice right in the face, soaking her beige coat.

I recoiled in horror, expecting her to scream. But no scream came.

The black liquid didn't flow. It moved. It was alive. Like a swarm of tiny embers, it crawled across her skin, rushed to her nostrils, and poured into her mouth, half-open in shock. Alice choked, her eyes widening in incomprehensible horror. She coughed, but the coughing immediately turned into convulsive twitching of her entire body. She fell onto my worn carpet, thrashing in silent, terrifying agony.

And in my head... in my head, a supernova exploded.

A sharp, red-hot needle of pain pierced the center of my consciousness. I fell to my knees next to her, clutching my temples. But it wasn't just pain. It was a rush. A torrent. A river of images, sounds, sensations that weren't mine.

I saw... a lab. Steel tables, the bluish glow of monitors, corridors smelling of sterility. I felt... the texture of surgical gloves on my skin, the weight of a medical journal in my hands, the sour taste of vending machine coffee. I knew... the formulas for synthesizing carrier proteins, the protocols for administering nanobots, the theory of accelerated cellular regeneration. Names, faces, terms—it all came rushing in like a tide.

And through the chaos, I realized something else. I felt the cold floor beneath my cheek. But it wasn't my cheek. I felt my—no, her—throat constricting, trying to breathe through the foreign mass. I felt the beating of two hearts: one pounding wildly in my own chest, the other—fluttering and racing—there, in Alice's.

I opened my eyes. My vision doubled.

With one eye, I saw the ceiling of my living room, a familiar crack in the plaster. With another—through eyelashes streaked with black tears—I saw my own face, distorted by a grimace of pain and amazement. I was looking at myself from the outside. I was both Evan Roberts, a frightened boy in pajamas, and… Alice Black, a research nurse, whose mind was now flooded with me.

The convulsions in the body on the floor began to subside. The black liquid had completely disappeared, absorbed or been absorbed. I—Evan—slowly lowered my hands. I—Alice—took a weak, raspy breath.

"What... what's happening?" I thought. And the thought echoed in both heads simultaneously. No, not an echo. It was the same thought in two places. One mind, stretched like a bridge between two bodies.

I—Evan—carefully reached out and touched Alice's shoulder. The skin was warm. Alive. And the moment my fingers touched the fabric of her coat, I felt this touch from within her body. Goosebumps ran up her arm. It was surreal. It was impossible. It was… interesting.

Fear began to recede, giving way to a shocked, almost childish curiosity. I forced Alice's body to sit up slowly. Her movements were alien, a little wooden, but obedient. She—no, I—lifted her hand and stared at it in front of my—our?—face. Thin, manicured fingers. A perfect manicure. Not at all like my working hands.

And in Alice's head, or rather, in the part of her that was now me, scraps of her knowledge floated. Nanobots. Replication of neural patterns. Unforeseen side effects of excess biomass. She… I… we knew about it. We studied the theory. But the practice…

I—Evan—giggled stupidly. The sound was nervous, muffled. I—Alice—smiled weakly in response, with my own lips, now mine.

"Hello," I thought to myself. "Looks like we're in big... no, double trouble."

And my two hearts began to beat in unison.