The hunger hit Ethan like a physical blow. One moment he was sketching the serpentine sigil he’d found replicated on a fragment of pottery at the Ashmolean, the next he was consumed by a ravenous emptiness that clawed at his insides. It wasn’t just hunger; it was a primal, gnawing void that demanded to be filled, and filled now.

He slammed his sketchbook shut, the charcoal smudging across the page. He hadn’t eaten since breakfast, which was unusual. He normally had a steady appetite, a healthy appetite, fueled by his hours spent buried in books and dusty archives. But this was different. This was…insistent.

He bolted from the library, ignoring the disapproving stares of the other researchers hunched over ancient tomes. He needed food, anything, everything. He stumbled down the narrow Oxford streets, the scent of freshly baked bread from a nearby bakery doing nothing to quell the monstrous craving. It only intensified it, turning his stomach into a churning pit.

He burst into a small café, the bell above the door jingling frantically. The aroma of coffee and pastries normally filled him with a sense of comfort, a welcome distraction from the academic rigors. Now, it was an almost painful tease.

“A cheese and ham toastie,” he croaked, his voice raspy. “And… and a pain au chocolat. And… and a large slice of Victoria sponge. And a… a sausage roll. Actually, just give me everything.”

The young woman behind the counter raised an eyebrow, a slight smile playing on her lips. “Bit peckish, are we?”

Ethan couldn’t manage a reply. He just nodded, his eyes darting around the display case, feasting on the array of cakes and sandwiches. The woman, seemingly unfazed by his unusual order, began to assemble his requested feast.

He devoured the food in a frenzy, barely chewing, swallowing whole chunks of the toastie and pastry. The initial wave of relief was short-lived. The void remained, a black hole threatening to consume him from the inside out. He ordered more – another toastie, two more pastries, a bowl of soup – and consumed it all with the same desperate ferocity.

The other patrons were now staring, their conversations dying down as they watched him shovel food into his mouth with a disturbing lack of grace. He didn't care. He couldn’t care. He was driven by an instinct so powerful, so alien, that it eclipsed all sense of social awareness.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity but was probably only twenty minutes, the edge of the hunger dulled. The gnawing ache subsided, replaced by a dull, heavy fullness. He leaned back in his chair, gasping for breath, a sheen of sweat on his brow.

He looked around the café, mortified. Crumbs littered the table, his plate was a graveyard of discarded wrappers, and the eyes of the other customers were fixed on him with a mixture of curiosity and revulsion. He fumbled for his wallet, paid the exorbitant bill, and fled the café, his face burning with shame.

Back in his dorm room, he collapsed onto his bed, his stomach protesting violently. He felt disgusting, bloated, and utterly bewildered. He had never experienced anything like this before. What was happening to him?

He staggered to the bathroom, hoping a cold splash of water would clear his head. He leaned over the sink, staring at his reflection in the mirror.

He looked…different. His eyes seemed darker, more intense. His skin had a strange, almost reptilian sheen. He dismissed it as exhaustion, the aftermath of his bizarre eating binge.

Then, it happened.

As he stared, unblinking, his reflection shimmered, distorted. For a fleeting, terrifying moment, he saw not his own face staring back at him, but something else entirely. A serpentine visage, gaunt and cruel, with reptilian eyes that glowed with an unnatural, malevolent light. Scales seemed to ripple beneath the surface of his skin. The transformation was fleeting, gone in the blink of an eye, leaving him staring at his own, albeit somewhat haggard, face.

He gasped, stumbling back against the wall. He pressed his hands to his temples, trying to make sense of what he had just seen. It had to be a hallucination, a trick of the light, the product of his overactive imagination and the stress of the past few days.

But deep down, he knew it was more than that. He knew, with a chilling certainty, that the Serpent was growing within him. The ring, the creature he had birthed, the mark on his wrist – they were all connected, pieces of a horrifying puzzle that was slowly coming together.

He lifted his wrist, staring at the serpentine mark that now seemed more prominent, more defined. It throbbed with a faint, pulsing heat. He could feel it, a subtle vibration that resonated deep within his bones.

The hunger, the distorted reflection… it was all a manifestation of the Serpent’s influence, a sign that it was slowly, inexorably, taking control. His body was no longer his own. It was being claimed, corrupted, by an ancient evil that sought to reclaim its dominion over humanity.

Panic threatened to overwhelm him. He had to do something, anything, to stop it. He had to find a way to sever the connection, to banish the Serpent back to whatever hellish realm it had come from.

He thought of Professor Armitage, the only person who seemed to understand the true nature of the ring and the entity it contained. He had to talk to him, to seek his guidance. But he couldn’t risk going to him looking like this, feeling like this. He needed to regain some semblance of control, to mask the Serpent’s influence, before he could seek help.

He splashed cold water on his face again, trying to calm his racing heart. He forced himself to take deep breaths, focusing on the familiar rhythm of his breathing. He thought of his grandfather, his unwavering belief in the power of knowledge and reason. He had to cling to that, to the hope that he could find a rational explanation, a scientific solution, to this supernatural nightmare.

He spent the rest of the evening poring over his grandfather’s notes, searching for any clue, any hint that might shed light on the ring’s origins and the Serpent’s weaknesses. He found nothing. The notes were cryptic, fragmented, filled with tantalizing hints but ultimately devoid of concrete answers.

As darkness fell, he found himself drawn back to the Ashmolean Museum. He knew it was foolish, reckless, but he couldn’t resist the urge to delve deeper into the mystery. He needed to see the fragment of pottery again, to study the serpentine sigil, to try to unlock its secrets.

He slipped out of his dorm room, avoiding the gaze of the porter at the entrance, and made his way through the darkened streets of Oxford. The air was crisp and cold, the silence broken only by the occasional hoot of an owl.

He reached the Ashmolean and, using a lock pick he'd acquired (a skill learned from a particularly eccentric uncle), he managed to disable the alarm system and slip inside. The museum was eerily silent, the exhibits shrouded in shadows.

He made his way to the gallery where the pottery fragment was displayed, his heart pounding in his chest. The sigil, etched into the ancient clay, seemed to pulse with a faint, inner light.

He reached out to touch it, his fingers trembling. As he did, a voice echoed in his mind, a chilling whisper that seemed to emanate from the sigil itself.

“You cannot escape me, Ethan Blackwood. You are mine now.”

He recoiled, stumbling back in terror. The gallery swam before his eyes. He felt a searing pain in his wrist, the serpentine mark burning like a brand.

He knew then that the Serpent was not just growing within him; it was actively hunting him, drawing him deeper into its web of darkness. And he was running out of time. He had to find a way to fight back, to reclaim his body and his mind, before the Serpent consumed him completely. But how could he fight an enemy he couldn’t see, an enemy that was already a part of him? The answer, he feared, lay buried in the past, in the secrets of the ring and the ancient cult that had worshipped the Great Serpent. And he was about to embark on a journey into the heart of that darkness, a journey that would test his sanity and his soul.