When I discovered thirty red spots that looked like insect eggs on my husband’s back, I panicked and rushed him to the emergency room — only for the doctor to take one look and say, “Call the police.”

I shook my head. “Just home and work. He’s an auditor. He rarely even goes outside during the week.”

The doctor quietly handed the nurse a small metal tray. Inside it lay several tiny fragments that had been removed from the wounds. The pieces gleamed under the light. They weren’t organic. They were metallic.

Oliver’s face turned pale. “You’re kidding,” he said weakly. “Those were inside me?”

The doctor nodded. “We need to run tests. These are not standard medical devices.”

A detective arrived soon after, introducing herself as Elise Grant. Her calmness only made the situation feel more surreal. “Mrs. Hale,” she said gently, “we have seen something similar in a few recent cases. We need to ask about everything your husband has touched or used in the past two weeks. Every item matters.”

I listed everything I could remember: our meals, his office chair, the gym he sometimes went to, even the back massager we kept in the bedroom. Elise took notes quietly.