The first welt was unremarkable—the kind of minor physical grievance one reflexively attributes to a stray mosquito or the general friction of a high-stress week. It was small, isolated, and easily ignored. But by the second night, a deliberate pattern had begun to emerge, and with it, a cold sense of unease that no amount of rationalization could suppress. The bumps appeared in distinct clusters, tracing a morbid map along my arms, shoulders, and back—precisely where my skin pressed against the mattress. The itch was not a sharp sting, but a low-frequency, persistent thrum that felt less like an allergic...
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