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February 25, 2025
A.I. Generated
The hour was late when Doctor Lysander, ever the seeker of forbidden knowledge, poured the final vial of his serum into a silver chalice. It shimmered, thick as moonlight, the color of the abyss, whispering promises of enlightenment. He raised it to his lips with trembling hands, his mind thrumming with the weight of discovery. The first sensation was cold, an unearthly chill unraveling his bones, then came the twisting—a grotesque, magnificent contortion. His fingers curled inward, nails retracting, flesh tightening over new, alien forms. His spine snapped into a sinuous arch, his once-imposing figure diminished into something slight, nimble, something feline. He stumbled forward on unsteady paws, the room now a cathedral of giants. His breath quickened, his chest—no, his ribs—shuddered against his fur-covered frame. His tail flicked involuntarily, betraying his unraveling mind. The world was sharper now, each shadow a whisper, each scent a secret. He leapt onto the desk, a movement far too effortless, and in the mirror, two luminescent eyes peered back, unblinking. The Doctor was gone. In his place sat a sleek black cat, a prisoner of his own ambition, lost beneath the spell of the midnight curse.
