"Mom, work has been particularly hectic lately. Once this busy period wraps up, I should have some time off and will come visit you and Dad." Ken chose not to disclose his sudden unemployment to his mother, unwilling to burden the family with worry. He reassured himself that his savings would suffice for the time being; finding a new job promptly was the priority .
After ending the call, Ken picked up his glasses, cleaned the lenses, and put them back on. He double-checked the date on his phone: July 14th, Sunday. The date was correct. Yet, he was absolutely certain that the day he had left the company and sought solace in drink was Thursday, July 11th. His WeChat history, the transaction record from the food stall on Alipay, and the ride-hailing app receipt all corroborated this. According to the app, he had arrived home around 8:50 PM. He had been so inebriated and disoriented that he had collapsed onto bed without even removing his shoes or clothes.
It was now 10:47 AM on July 14th. He had slept for approximately two full days—almost sixty hours. Could three mere cans of beer, even for a lightweight, possibly cause such an effect?
Stranger still, after such an extended slumber, he awoke not with hunger or thirst, but with only a lingering dizziness. He boiled water and prepared a bowl of instant noodles, but after a few bites, a sharp discomfort seized his stomach, forcing him to rush to the bathroom and vomit everything. "Is this still the aftermath of the alcohol?" he wondered, rubbing his abdomen .
He decided to go out for something plainer to eat. Outside, the glaring sunlight seemed to intensify his dizziness, forcing him to walk close to the buildings, seeking shade. He found a small café near his apartment and ordered plain congee with two side dishes. Shortly after he began eating, another wave of stomach cramps hit him, and he stumbled outside to vomit onto the roadside, tears and mucus streaming down his face. The concerned café owner and a waiter rushed out, staring bewildered. Ken waved them off, accepting a tissue. "It's not your food," he explained hoarsely. "My stomach's upset from drinking last night."
After paying, and despite feeling no hunger and only general weakness and dizziness, Ken went to a nearby clinic, one staffed by a respected, retired surgeon from a major hospital. "You slept for two days after drinking?" the elderly doctor asked, taking his pulse and examining his tongue. "You rarely drink, and your body was already weakened by chronic sleep deprivation. I'll prescribe some medicine. Get plenty of rest, eat lightly, avoid smoke and alcohol, and have more fruits and vegetables ."
"But Doctor, sleeping for nearly sixty hours… and my teeth feel loose…"
"Such prolonged sleep is unusual. Tooth looseness could be due to inflammation causing gum recession. Maintain good oral hygiene. If concerned, see a dentist or get a full medical check-up," the doctor advised, handing him the prescription .
Leaving the clinic with medicine in hand, Ken felt a profound unease. His body felt undeniably strange. He resolved to take the medicine and rest, deciding to get a comprehensive check-up if the peculiar sensations persisted tomorrow.
It was past noon now. The aromas from nearby restaurants wafted by, but Ken felt no appetite. This lack of hunger, especially after so long without food, deepened his anxiety. Intending to buy some bread for later, he passed a wet market. There, a peculiar scent caught his attention, drawing him inside involuntarily.
The market was nearly empty. Ken followed the scent to its source and stopped short. It was a vendor efficiently slaughtering a chicken, and the smell that had drawn him in was the metallic tang of fresh blood. Normally, this smell would repel him; now, it ignited a deep, primal craving from within .
After a moment's hesitation, Ken approached and bought a live chicken. Instead of having it prepared, he carried the squawking bird home himself.
Once behind his closed door, Ken, wielding his Swiss army knife and following a quick online search, attempted the slaughter in his bathroom. The process was messy and unfamiliar, the bird flapping wildly. Finally managing to hold it still, he roughly plucked feathers from its neck, made a cut, and let the blood flow. Before the stainless-steel bowl was even half-full, he found himself bending over, drinking directly from the trickle.
…
Ken awoke to a scene of chaos. The room was strewn with feathers—on the bed, the floor, his clothes, and around his mouth. The blood-drained carcass of the chicken lay by the bathroom door, and bloodstains were smeared everywhere, resembling a crime scene. He remembered the compulsive urge that led him to buy the chicken, the struggle to kill it, and the frantic drinking of its blood, followed by an overwhelming fatigue that sent him straight to bed.
Checking his phone, he saw he had slept for over 24 hours again, from around 1 PM yesterday to after 4 PM today. He felt something odd in his mouth and spat into his hand: two teeth. In a panic, he reached up and easily wiggled another tooth loose—a front incisor—pulling it out effortlessly.
He sprang from the bed and rushed to the bathroom mirror. Peering closely, he saw that all his teeth were loose, ready to fall out with the slightest pressure. But beneath where each old tooth had been, the sharp tips of new teeth were already emerging. New teeth at thirty?
Even more shocking was his reflection. His face, aside from the stray feathers and dried blood, appeared covered in a flaking, plastic-wrap-like film. It was his skin, peeling away in large sheets. The phenomenon wasn't confined to his face; his arms, torso, and legs—his entire body was undergoing a drastic shedding .