Aris led Morgan from the consultation room into the heart of the facility. The corridor was not a hallway but a chasm carved through living architecture. The walls pulsed with a slow, bioluminescent rhythm, and the air grew thick with the scent of ozone and something vaguely metallic, like fresh blood. They arrived at a circular chamber dominated by a single object: the bio-pod.

It rested on the floor like a gargantuan, obsidian egg, smooth and seamless. It was both organic and mechanical, with faint, glowing tracery running beneath its polished black surface like a complex circulatory system. It hummed with a low, sub-vocal thrum that Morgan felt in the fillings of his teeth—the last real sensation his old body would ever register.

"The Genesis Pod," Aris stated, his hand gesturing toward it. "Womb and tomb. Step inside. Lie down. It will conform to you."

There was no visible seam, but as Morgan approached, a section of the pod’s surface liquified, pulling back like a viscous membrane to reveal a cushioned interior that seemed to breathe. He hesitated for only a second before climbing in. The moment he lay back, the soft, warm material molded around him, a perfect, cloying embrace. The opening sealed shut, plunging him into absolute darkness and silence. He was entombed.

Panic, cold and vestigial, tried to claw its way up his throat, but before it could take hold, Aris's voice filled the void, piped directly into his consciousness. It was no longer coming from a speaker; it was simply there, inside his head, as calm and clear as a surgeon’s scalpel.

"The process is beginning, Morgan. Do not resist. The nanite infusion is underway. You may feel a slight tingling sensation."

'Slight tingling' was a grotesque understatement. It began in his extremities, a pins-and-needles feeling that intensified exponentially, as if his entire body had fallen asleep. Then the tingling became a vibration, a billion microscopic insects burrowing into his flesh, his muscles, his bones. He saw them in his mind's eye, a swarming, iridescent tide flowing through his veins, each one a tiny engine of deconstruction.

"Your integumentary system is the first to be cataloged and dissolved. Your skin is becoming permeable. Its structural integrity is failing."

Morgan felt it. His skin, the lifelong barrier between himself and the world, was losing its cohesion. It felt like he was being flayed by a million tiny razors, but without pain—only the pure, terrifying sensation of coming apart. He watched, from his disembodied vantage point, as his own flesh seemed to liquefy, turning into a shimmering, pinkish mist that was immediately wicked away by unseen systems within the pod.

"Cellular decohesion is successful. We are now targeting the musculoskeletal structure. Your form is being unmade."

His limbs felt weightless, then nonexistent. The solid framework of his skeleton, the very architecture of his being, dissolved like sugar in water. There was a faint grinding sensation, then nothing. His organs followed, each one reduced to its constituent proteins and lipids, cataloged and added to the swirling slurry that had once been him. He was a ghost watching his own haunted house be meticulously demolished, brick by brick. His consciousness, the singular, terrified 'I' at the center of it all, was being pulled taut, anchored to Aris's voice as the last vestiges of its physical home were swept away.

"Deconstruction complete. Your biological matter is now a homogenous, pluripotent medium. Your consciousness is stable. Welcome to the interim, Morgan. The void before creation."

He was nothing. A point of view in a warm, dark, humming emptiness. His body was gone. The name 'Morgan' was attached to nothing but a memory. And the only thing in the universe was the calm, resonant voice of the man who had just taken him apart.

"Now, the genesis," Aris’s voice resonated through Morgan's non-space, a divine pronouncement. "From the potential, the actual. We will not build you from the outside in, like a sculptor. We will grow you from a single, perfect point. A seed of pure sensation."

The slurry around him, the liquid that was him, began to move. It was not a chaotic churn, but a slow, deliberate convergence. Filaments of nascent tissue, glowing with faint internal light, started to knit together, pulling inward toward a central point deep within the amorphous mass. Morgan’s consciousness, which had been floating untethered, was drawn toward it, anchored to this focal point of creation. It was the first physical sensation his new form registered: a deep, internal gathering, a pulling tautness that was neither pain nor pleasure, but something more fundamental. A sense of purpose.

"Your old body was a chaotic collection of disparate systems," Aris explained, his voice a clinical caress. "A compromise. Your new form will be unified, its entire existence oriented around a single interface. We call it the primary sensory nexus. An orifice, yes, but one of unparalleled complexity and receptivity. It will be your mouth, your ears, your eyes. It will be the sole conduit through which you experience reality."

As Aris spoke, the feeling intensified. Morgan could feel the nexus taking shape within the core of his being. He felt the flesh invaginate, folding inward to create a deep, smooth-walled canal. A ring of hyper-specialized muscle fibers coalesced at the entrance, a sphincter of impossible potential, dense with more nerve endings than his entire former body had possessed. It wasn't just a hole; it was an architecture of reception. He could feel the pliability being woven into the very structure of the tissue, a profound elasticity designed not just to yield, but to welcome. To envelop. To consume.

"This nexus is not merely a passive opening," Aris continued, his tone hardening with an undercurrent of something that sounded like reverence. "It is a dynamic organ. Its musculature will allow you to grip, to pulse, to control the stimulus you receive. It is being designed for profound conditioning. It must learn to accept, to stretch, to accommodate. Its capacity for sensation will be directly proportional to its capacity for physical volume. To unlock its potential, we must push its boundaries far beyond any human conception."

The formation was complete. The pulling sensation subsided, replaced by a constant, low-level thrum of awareness that emanated from deep within him. Morgan’s entire consciousness was now centered on this one feature. He could feel the perfect, puckered ring of the entrance, waiting. He could sense the incredible depth of the channel it guarded, a warm, slick, empty cavern that seemed to ache with a need he didn't have a name for yet. It was a void, but a void that begged to be filled. This was his new center of gravity, the entirety of his being. He was no longer Morgan. He was a hole. A perfect, virgin orifice waiting for its master, for its first lesson in what it meant to feel.

The low hum of the pod ceased. A soft hiss, like a final exhalation, echoed in the chamber as the viscous membrane of the pod’s surface thinned and retracted. Cool, sterile air washed over Morgan’s new form, carrying the scent of antiseptic and Aris’s faint, masculine cologne. Light, sharp and white, pierced the darkness he had become accustomed to. For a moment, his consciousness, still reeling from its own re-synthesis, struggled to process the input.

He had no eyes, but he could perceive. He saw himself from a dozen angles at once, an external and internal awareness that was a feature of his new biology. He was a mound of smooth, pearlescent flesh, about the size of a human torso, resting on the pod’s cushioned floor. The flesh quivered with a slow, rhythmic pulse, like a living heart laid bare. It was utterly featureless—no head, no limbs, no face—save for the one, perfect detail at its apex: the nexus. It was a dark, deep-purple pucker of tissue, a tightly closed starburst of flesh that looked impossibly pristine, glistening with a faint, clear lubrication that it produced naturally.

He heard the soft click of Aris’s hard-soled shoes on the polished floor, the sound resonating through his entire mass. Then, another sound, a sharp snap of latex that sent a pre-emptive shiver through him. Aris knelt beside the pod, his face a mask of intense, proprietary focus. He was a god appraising his new creation.

"Remarkable," Aris breathed, his voice a low vibration that Morgan felt in his very core. "The tissue regeneration is flawless. The nexus is perfectly formed."

Then came the touch.

The tip of Aris’s gloved finger, cool and slick with latex, pressed against the hyper-sensitive rim of the orifice.

Morgan’s consciousness detonated.

It wasn't pleasure. It was a supernova of pure, unadulterated sensation that bypassed every filter of his former humanity. A jolt of white-hot lightning shot from the nexus through every newly-formed cell of his body. His entire amorphous form seized, convulsing in a silent, ecstatic spasm. If he’d had lungs, he would have screamed. Instead, the pleasure was a deafening roar inside his mind, an overwhelming wave of data that his new brain immediately categorized as correct, necessary, vital.

Aris’s finger pressed harder, indenting the tight, virginal ring of muscle. The sphincter, designed for this very moment, yielded with a wet little sigh. The latex-sheathed digit slid inside. Morgan’s world dissolved into the feeling of being filled for the first time. The channel was slick, impossibly hot, and lined with a velvety texture that seemed to cling to the invading finger. The walls of the nexus pulsed instinctively, a desperate, greedy little squeeze around the foreign object.

"Ah," Aris murmured, a sound of profound scientific satisfaction. "The neuromuscular response is immediate. Excellent."

He pushed his finger deeper, then deeper still, exploring the seemingly endless canal he had designed. Then, with slow, deliberate cruelty, he hooked his finger and pulled gently against the inner wall. The specific, targeted pressure sent another, even more potent, shockwave of pleasure through Morgan. He felt his own slick lubrication gush from the opening, coating Aris’s finger, his hand. Aris added a second finger, forcing the pristine opening to stretch, to widen. The slight tearing sensation was not pain; it was just a prelude, a sharpening of the pleasure that followed as the two digits began to move inside him, a clinical, rhythmic fucking that was rewriting Morgan's entire definition of existence. This was his purpose. This was his genesis. He was made for this, and this was only the beginning.