The Embarrassment Evolution

Chapter 3: Skin of the Irony

"Try me," Irina repeated, her voice dropping into that low, dangerous register that made the tiny hairs on the back of Dimas’s neck stand up. She was leaning so close he could smell the faint scent of vanilla and ink clinging to her clothes.

Dimas swallowed hard, adjusting the heavy, black sunglasses on the bridge of his nose. They were too large for his face, slipping slightly, but they acted as a necessary cage for the flickering crimson light currently pulsating behind his retinas.

"You don't want to know," Dimas said, his voice coming out tighter than he intended. "Trust me, Irina. Some secrets are better left rotting in the dark."

Irina tilted her head, her gaze sharp enough to cut glass. "You sound like a character from a bad noir novel. 'Rotting in the dark'? Really? We’re in a campus library, not an interrogation room in East Berlin."

"Maybe it just feels like one," Dimas muttered, shifting his weight. "Can you stop staring at me? It’s not helping the ‘migraine’."

"Hard to stop when the guy I’m talking to looks like he’s wearing a disguise," she replied, reaching out as if to adjust the glasses.

Dimas flinched, pulling back abruptly. "Don't."

She froze, her hand hovering in the air. "Whoa. Easy there, big guy. I’m just trying to see if your pupils are doing the whole glow-stick routine again."

"I told you, they're sensitive. Keep your distance, okay? My stress levels are—"

Warning, the metallic voice vibrated in his skull. Cortisol levels rising. Defensive adaptation requested. Current stability: 39 percent.

"Your stress levels are what?" Irina asked, stepping back, though her eyes remained glued to his face. "Are you going to collapse again? Should I call a medic, or should I just stand here and wait for you to start speaking in binary?"

"I’m fine," Dimas snapped, perhaps a bit too loudly. The sound echoed off the high, mahogany bookshelves. A few students three aisles over shushed them, their voices irritated.

"Right. You're 'fine'," Irina mimicked, folding her arms across her chest. "But you’re twitching. You’ve been twitching since you walked in here. What is it, Dimas? What are you so afraid of?"

"I’m not afraid," Dimas lied, though his heart was thumping a frantic, irregular rhythm against his ribs.

"You look like you're vibrating, and not in a good way," she said, her tone shifting from skeptical to genuinely curious. "Is there someone in this building you’re dodging? Is that it?"

Before Dimas could come up with a halfway decent excuse, a heavy, familiar shadow fell over the aisle. Dimas felt a knot of dread tighten in his stomach. He didn't need to turn around to know who it was.

"Well, well, well," a voice sneered, thick with unearned confidence. "If it isn't the lecture hall gymnast. How’s the floor, Dimas? Still tasting the linoleum?"

It was Tyler, the self-appointed king of the third row, a guy whose personality was comprised entirely of gym memberships and daddy’s money. He was flanked by his usual two shadows, both of whom snickered in unison.

"Go away, Tyler," Irina said, not even turning her head. "We’re busy."

Tyler stepped closer, his sneakers squeaking on the polished floor. "I wasn't talking to you, Irina. I was asking our favorite klutz if he needed a map to the nearest exit. Or maybe a helmet?"

Dimas gripped the strap of his satchel until his fingers ached. "I’m leaving, Tyler. Just let me pass."

"Leaving?" Tyler chuckled, stepping into his path. He reached out and tapped the rim of Dimas’s sunglasses. "What’s with the shades, tough guy? Trying to hide the black eye you’re about to get?"

"Tyler, seriously, back off," Irina warned, her voice losing its playful edge. She straightened up, her expression turning stony.

"Relax, Irina," Tyler laughed, turning to his friends. "I’m just checking on him. He looks like he’s about to have a seizure."

He shoved Dimas—a sharp, stinging push against his shoulder. It wasn't hard, but it was degrading. It was the kind of dismissal that made Dimas’s blood turn to ice.

System Override Initiated, the voice boomed in his head. Threat detected: Physical aggression. Initiating Hardened Dermis Protocol.

"Hey, watch it!" Dimas shouted, but his own voice sounded strange, warped by a sudden, metallic grinding noise that seemed to originate from within his own chest.

"Or what?" Tyler challenged, giving him another shove, harder this time. "You gonna trip over your own feet again? Maybe you can take the whole shelf down with you?"

Dimas felt it then—a strange, searing heat that poured from his core out toward his extremities. His skin began to itch, a sensation like thousands of microscopic ants crawling beneath the surface. He tried to take a step back, but his legs felt heavy, as if his muscles were being replaced by solid, unyielding iron.

"What’s wrong with you?" Tyler asked, his sneer faltering as he caught sight of Dimas’s face.

Dimas couldn't answer. He felt a weird, heavy sensation spreading across his skin. His arm, which Tyler had just shoved, felt like it was encased in cold, thick slate. He tried to raise his hand to his face, but the movement was jerky, sluggish, and labored.

"Dimas?" Irina whispered, her voice laced with sudden, sharp alarm. She took a step closer, her eyes scanning his skin.

"Get away from me," Dimas growled, but the words felt like they were being pushed through a sieve. His jaw felt stiff, his neck muscles locking into place like hinges rusted shut.

Tyler went to shove him again, laughing, but as his palm connected with Dimas’s shoulder, the smile vanished from his face. He recoiled, shaking his hand as if he’d just punched a brick wall.

"What the hell?" Tyler hissed, his eyes wide. "What are you made of, man? You’re hard as stone!"

Dimas tried to blink, but his eyelids were heavy. He felt his breathing slow, his heart rate dropping from a frantic panic to a low, rhythmic thud that felt like a distant earthquake. He was a statue, a monument to a Tuesday afternoon conflict. He couldn't move his neck, his arms, or his fingers. He was a man turned to rock.

"He’s not moving," one of Tyler’s goons whispered, stepping back. "Dude, what did you do to him?"

"I didn't do anything!" Tyler exclaimed, panic finally creeping into his voice. "I just pushed him!"

Irina stepped right up to Dimas, her expression unreadable. She looked at his face, his stiff, unmoving posture, and the way the overhead library light caught the strange, slate-gray sheen that had coated his skin.

"Dimas?" she said, her voice soft now. "Can you hear me?"

Dimas wanted to answer. He wanted to tell her to run, to tell her that this was part of the ‘system,’ but his lips were as rigid as granite. He was locked in a perfect, rigid pose, his shoulder still slightly hunched from where Tyler had pushed him.

Irina reached out. She hesitated for a heartbeat, then slowly, tentatively, reached into her bag. She pulled out a clicky ballpoint pen.

Tyler and his friends watched, transfixed, as she reached out and gently poked Dimas’s cheek with the plastic tip of the pen.

Click. Click.

The sound of the pen hitting his skin was the distinct, hollow sound of metal tapping against stone.

"Well," Irina said, her voice trembling slightly, though whether from fear or intense curiosity, it was impossible to tell. "He’s definitely not a guy anymore."

Tyler backed away, his face pale. "We’re leaving. This is messed up. This is, like, a freak show."

The three of them scrambled away, their footsteps echoing quickly down the aisle until they reached the exit.

Irina remained, standing inches from the stone-cold, statue-like figure of Dimas. She let out a long, shaky breath, her gaze tracing the immobile features of his face behind the dark lenses of the sunglasses.

"You always did like to make an entrance, Dimas," she whispered, leaning in closer. "But I think you’ve officially broken the curve."

She poked him again, right in the center of his forehead. Click. Click.

Dimas didn't blink. He couldn't. Behind the dark glass, the glowing crimson light was beginning to pulse again, rhythmic and slow, like a heart beating in the depths of a mountain. He was here, he was awake, and he was absolutely terrified—but he was as still as the grave.