BEAUTIFUL DISASTER

The cameras flashed like strobe lights against the velvet backdrop of the red carpet. In the center of the frenzy stood Ananya Mehra. Though her birth certificate placed her in her early 40s, she possessed the smooth, luminous skin of a woman half her age. All of India worshipped her; she was the nation’s golden obsession.

Suddenly, the air grew thick. Ananya felt a prickle of heat beneath her skin that had nothing to do with the stage lights. Beads of sweat—oily and hot—erupted across her forehead. Her bodyguard leaned in, whispering a frantic question, but she brushed him off with a trembling hand.

Then, the simmer turned into a boil.

Ananya let out a jagged gasp as her skin began to flush a deep, bruised purple. With a manic strength, she began clawing at her designer gown, the expensive silk shredding under her fingernails. When her bodyguard tried to restrain her, she lunged. Her fingers locked around his throat with a sickening wet crunch. Before the crowd could even process the scream, she drove her thumbs into his eye sockets. The sound of them bursting was like wet glass shattering.

Her own body was betraying her now. Her skin bubbled and turned a raw, angry red, stretching until it began to split. She tore away the remains of her dress, standing in the center of the horror in only her lace undergarments. She let out one final, soul-shattering shriek as her flesh began to liquefy.

She wasn't just dying; she was melting.

With a muffled burst of internal pressure, she began to blow up. A spray of hot, iron-scented blood painted the screaming paparazzi and the pristine red carpet.

ONE DAY AGO

The Mehra Mansion stood as a monument to timelessness. Inside, seventeen-year-old Neila stared into the floor-to-length mirror, her eyes stinging with tears.

"I am Neila," she whispered to her reflection. "Tomorrow, I’ll be eighteen."

She thought of her family—the genetic anomalies. Her father, Rishab, was forty-six but looked twenty-five. Her mother, Ananya, was a timeless beauty. Even her grandmother, Mitali, looked like a girl in her twenties. They were gods. Neila, however, felt like a glitch in the system. She was heavy-set, her skin dull, her face carrying the weary weight of a woman who had lived thirty years and seen too much.

"My mom says tomorrow will change everything," Neila sobbed quietly. "She says I'll finally be like them. But I know she's lying."

In the study, the "gods" were arguing.

"I am tired of this," Mitali hissed, her youthful face contorted in a mask of exhaustion. "Do you even think this is a gift anymore?"

Ananya leaned in, a sharp, perfect smile on her face. "Mom, look at yourself. You're sixty and you look twenty. You’re the most famous musician on the planet. Why would you throw that away?"

Mitali stood abruptly, her voice trembling. "Look around! We are killing ourselves! I should never have joined this insanity."

"Mom, stop!" Rishab’s voice thundered, vibrating through the expensive walls. "You have to feed It tonight. If you don't, you know It will come for Ananya instead."

Mitali nodded, her face pale with a primal, suffocating fear.

HILLS SCHOOL

Neila stepped out of a sleek 2026 Mercedes-Benz, the engine’s purr doing nothing to soothe her nerves. Despite her family owning sixty percent of the prestigious school, wealth couldn't buy her a shield against the cruelty of teenagers.

Her only friend, Priya—the school’s other "loser"—approached her with a weak smile. "Well, well, if it isn't the birthday girl."

"Don't," Neila whispered, glancing around. "What if someone hears?"

It was too late. The school’s elite trio—Rhea, Maya, and Diya—descended on them like vultures.

"The fat loser’s birthday?" Rhea mocked, her voice echoing in the hallway.

"Are you deaf, or just stupid?" Maya chimed in.

Diya stepped into Neila’s personal space, her eyes cold. "Answer the question, loser."

A crowd began to form, sensing blood in the water.

"It’s... it’s my birthday tomorrow," Neila stammered.

Rhea laughed, a high, piercing sound. "Who would celebrate the birth of the Mehra family's ugly duckling? Everyone in your family is a masterpiece, Neila. You’re just a curse."

The hallway erupted in laughter. Neila didn't wait for Priya; she turned and bolted, her heavy footsteps sounding like a death march in her ears.

MEHRA MANSION

Later that evening, Ananya paced their bedroom, her eyes darting toward the door. "What if she doesn't listen to us, Rishab? What if she refuses?"

Rishab grabbed his wife’s hands, his grip firm. "Don't worry, my love."

"You know the price if she fails to feed It," Ananya snapped, her composure slipping.

"I know," Rishab said softly, pulling her into a hug. "I’ll make sure she does it. Everything will be perfect."

As he held her, Ananya stared over his shoulder, a dark, hungry happiness gleaming in her eyes.

MITALI’S QUARTERS

Late that night, Neila sat on the edge of her grandmother’s bed. The air in the room felt heavy, smelling faintly of old incense and something copper-like.

"I just want to be beautiful like you," Neila whispered, wiping a fresh tear.

Mitali reached out, her hand trembling as she touched Neila’s cheek. "You are fine as you are, child. Believe me... beauty is a specific kind of pain." She gripped Neila’s wrist suddenly, her eyes wide. "Tomorrow, no matter what you hear, do not go into the forbidden room."

Neila frowned, a spark of rebellion flickering in her chest. "But why? I want to see what’s in there."

Mitali recoiled as if she’d been struck, the blood draining from her youthful face.

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