The Congo doesn’t ask questions. It watches. And so do the gorillas stitched into my suit as I peel another banana, its flesh too bright, too knowing.

I’ve been eating them in precise numbers, three at dawn, five at dusk, measuring how the sugars ferment in my blood. The first week, nothing. The second, my teeth ached. The third, my hands swelled, knuckles grinding like they wanted to drop onto all fours.

I boiled the peels into a syrup, thick as tar. Drank it under a full moon. That night, my spine itched, muscles writhing under skin. In the mirror, my shadow hunched. Broadened.

The gorillas on my jacket don’t just watch now. They breathe.

Yesterday, I woke with a branch in my fist, not grabbed. Grown.

Tomorrow, I skip the banana.

I eat the tree.

By midnight, my veins thrum with sap. Bark ridges rise along my forearms. My breath smells of wet earth and crushed leaves. The stitching in my suit strains.

The Congo still watches.

But now, so do I.