Oli London found himself in a vast, pink-hued dreamscape, floating somewhere between reality and fantasy. Everything shimmered with an eerie glow, and the air smelled faintly of artificial roses. He looked down at himself—his reflection rippled on the ground beneath him, shifting between versions of himself, different faces, different surgeries.
Then, from the swirling void ahead, a familiar figure emerged—Rose.
"Oli," she said, her voice distant yet firm. "I need to show you something."
He followed without hesitation. Something about her presence felt commanding, like an unspoken force pulling him forward. She turned her back to him, her posture rigid.
Then—squelch.
A sickening sound of shifting, grinding organs filled the dreamscape. Flesh undulated beneath her clothing. Her shoulders trembled, her hands twitching like they were being controlled by unseen strings. And then, as if driven by something unnatural, she yanked her pants down.
Oli's breath caught in his throat.
Where her lower back should have been, there was a face—a separate, living face—with only a mouth, a pair of cold, judgmental eyes, and a small, upturned nose. The flesh around it pulsed as if breathing.
The face on her rear spoke.
"Oli," it hissed, its voice guttural and dripping with disdain. "You need to stop."
Oli staggered backward, a chill running down his spine.
"Stop trolling. Stop pretending to be Rose. Just get a life," the monstrous mouth continued, its lips curling with disgust. "You're chasing shadows. Living in delusion. Do you know what real suffering is?"
The dreamscape around them darkened. Shadows formed around them, whispering in voices filled with exhaustion and pain.
"Trainees," the face muttered. "They starve. They cry themselves to sleep in dorm rooms that feel like cages. They break bones, they shatter dreams, they fight for a chance to exist. You? You just buy a new face and pretend it means something."
The whispers grew louder. Screams echoed. A blurry vision of trainees collapsed from exhaustion, of contracts signed in blood, of idols trapped in an endless cycle of perfection and punishment.
Oli clutched his head. It was too much. The whispers became a roar, the darkness closing in—
And then—
He woke up.
Sweat drenched his body. His heart pounded against his ribs.
For a moment, he swore he could still hear the voice—the voice from that grotesque, independent mouth.
And it still whispered:
Oli London wandered through a dimly lit city street, the neon lights above flickering like a heartbeat. The air was thick with an unnatural stillness, as if the world was waiting for something to happen.
Then, from the shadows, a group of black men emerged. Their movements were synchronized, their faces unreadable. They surrounded him in a perfect circle, their eyes locking onto his with an intensity that made his stomach drop.
One of them stepped forward. His lips barely moved as he spoke.
"You have AIDS."
The words hit Oli like a gunshot, but before he could react, the air rippled—like reality itself had been torn apart.
From the distortion, a red-colored midget crawled into existence. Its skin glistened like raw meat, its eyes two deep pits of blackness. It grinned, revealing teeth too sharp, too jagged, too wrong.
"I am AIDS," it rasped, its voice crawling into his ears like worms burrowing into flesh.
Oli tried to move, tried to scream, but his body had betrayed him. His limbs felt like lead, his tongue a useless slab of meat.
Then, without warning, the creature leapt—its tiny, sinewy arms forcing his mouth open.
And it crawled inside.
A sensation worse than pain, worse than death itself, surged through him. It was like swallowing liquid fire, like something was clawing down his throat, wrapping around his insides, becoming him.
His vision blurred. The men around him distorted, their faces melting into the darkness.
Then—
Oli woke up.
Cold sweat soaked his sheets. His heart pounded against his ribs like it was trying to escape. He gasped for breath, trying to shake the nightmare away.
But something was wrong.
He couldn't see.
Everything was black.
No light. No shapes. No shadows. Just an endless, suffocating void.
He blinked once. Twice.
Nothing.
The last thing he heard was a faint, guttural whisper, slithering up from the depths of his own body.
"I am still here."
The blackness was suffocating. It pressed against Oli from all sides, a void with no shape, no texture, no escape. It wasn't just dark—it was absence.
Then, without warning, something peeled it away.
The blackness pulled down like a curtain, revealing soft, warm light. A familiar figure stood before him, bathed in a glow that felt both comforting and horrifying.
It was Rose.
But something was wrong.
Her face was serene, almost too serene. Her eyes held a knowing, almost pitying gaze.
She stepped closer, bending down slightly, as if speaking to a small child. Or something less than human.
Then, in a voice smooth as silk, she whispered:
"You are no longer Oli London."
Oli felt his body shrink, compress, distort. His limbs, his face, his very self seemed to fold inward, sucked into something tight and constricting.
Rose smiled.
"You are the anus of Rose."
Panic surged through him. He tried to scream, tried to deny it, but when he opened his mouth—
PFFFFFTT.
A deep, humiliating fart escaped instead.
His nonexistent face burned with shame. He tried again.
BBBRRPPPPFFT.
No words. No voice. Only gas.
Rose turned around, her back now facing him. The truth hit him like a death sentence. He was attached to her now. Not as a person. Not even as a thing.
Just a part of her.
She walked forward, and he felt everything—the movement, the shifting muscles, the terrifying power of her body controlling him now.
Oli London no longer existed.
Only Rose's anus.
And as the reality of his new form set in, the only sound he could make was the soft, pitiful whisper of wind escaping into the world.
Pfffft.