Nallatorne was the picture of success: tall, well-dressed, and exuding an aura of ambition that many envied. At 48, his empire had spread to all corners of the city, and his influence was undeniable.
One evening, after sealing another lucrative deal, he felt a small itch on the nape of his neck. Dismissing it as a mosquito bite, he continued to celebrate with his peers. But that night, as he lay in his opulent bed, the itch spread across his back, and soon his entire body was ablaze with a burning sensation.
Over the next few months, small patches of vivid red scales began to appear on his skin. Nallatorne, ever the proud man, hid them beneath tailored suits and shirts. However, as the scales multiplied, they became impossible to hide. His nose began to decay, giving off a putrid smell. His once piercing blue eyes transformed into a haunting crimson.
Despite the physical changes, Nallatorne's ambition remained, and it began to morph into something far darker. His hunger for success was replaced by a hunger for human desperation. The very aura that once drew people to him, now made them uneasy, as if they sensed the predator lurking beneath the facade.
It became evident that the spore that infected Nallatorne wasn't just a fungus, but a parasitic entity, consuming his humanity and replacing it with monstrous desires. As he transitioned further, his once booming voice now resonated with a guttural growl, and he no longer sought boardroom battles but human prey.
Whispers spread through the city of a demonic creature prowling the streets, feeding off the despair of its victims. Those consumed by the creature's grasp didn't die; instead, they too transformed, becoming twisted versions of their former selves. Each one different, yet driven by their own unique depravity.
Nallatorne, once a beacon of ambition and success, had become the city's nightmare, leading an army of the damned, praying on desperation, and leaving a trail of transformed souls in his wake.
