The first knock is just... a knock. You know? Before anything gets weird. Before your shirt feels tighter and you can't remember if you always had that little belly or if it showed up yesterday. Sarah's apartment has three rooms and a door. That door becomes the whole world once the RAG-virus does its thing outside.

What got me was the hand check. You look at palms through the peephole. Sometimes there's teeth where teeth shouldn't be. Sometimes the flesh looks wrong in a way the pixel art doesn't try to smooth over, like someone drew it halfway between horny and upset and just left it there. The Visitor Testing System sounds technical but really it's you squinting at a low-res hand going "is that normal skin or is that something else," while the visitor murmurs about how lonely you must be, how warm it is inside, how easy it would be to just. To just.

Sarah's body changes whether you want it to or not. The weight gain is the game's clock. Your chest gets heavy, your ass spreads, your belly pushes against the waistband. And the horror isn't separate from that. It is that. The erotic dread of your own shape becoming unfamiliar while strangers scratch at the doorframe wanting to feed you something. One visitor, I forget her name now, tells you she used to be a baker and her hands are clean but her smile doesn't close right and I noticed I was leaning toward the screen.

I got distracted by the zipper on Sarah's jeans. The sound it makes when it won't close. Spent maybe too long thinking about that sound. The writing does this thing where danger and desire use the same words. "Let me in," "you'll feel so full," "it only hurts at first." Standard psychological horror tricks but applied to a body that's changing in ways some of us. Never mind.

Multiple endings. I found one where Sarah gives in and it's not a bad ending exactly. That's the problem. Eight visitors with their own obsessions and one of them brought butter in a little dish and I don't know why that detail stuck but it did, the mundanity of it, the domestic horror of spreading butter on bread while your thighs get heavier and your mind goes soft at the edges. The game tracks infection percentage like a flirtation.