短文生成结果

Dr. Aris Thorne stood in the sterile silence of his lab, a man **Resigned** to his fate. For years, his life’s work had been the **Insemination** of hope into barren **wombs** across the state. But now, his own body was a prison. The experimental fertility serum, derived from a rare **parasite**, had backfired. A **pungent** odor of ammonia now followed him, a side effect of painful **urination** and worse—the uncontrollable **Regurgitation** of a strange, **pungent** black bile. It was an **abomination**. He, the creator, had become the host. The visions began next. A voice, deep as a chasm, echoed in his mind. ***"Khorne... Nurgle... Submission..."*** It was the **Psychosadistic** chorus of the parasites, now thriving in his **entrails**. They whispered of **Annihilation**, of a **murderer** he must become to sate their hunger. His once-steady hands, which had gently placed embryos, now shook with a violent need to **Eliminate** the source of his torment: the original parasite culture. In a fevered state, he stumbled to the secure fridge. The culture sat within, a **cream pie** of writhing horror. The voice roared, ***"Blocking!"***—a psychic command that froze his muscles. But Aris fought. With a guttural cry, he didn’t reach for the culture. He grabbed the industrial cleaner beside it. The final **submission** was not to the voices, but to his own humanity. He would not be their **master**, nor their pawn. He would be their end. Pouring the caustic liquid down his own throat was an act of pure, agonizing will. It wasn’t **sex** or violence, but a terrible, final cleanse. The **scream** from the entities within was silent, a psychic shockwave that shattered the lab glass before fading. Dr. Thorne slumped to the floor, the **pungent** odors beginning to dissipate. The **entrails** within him were still, the voices **Annihilated**. In destroying himself, he had not resigned. He had won. The silence that followed was not empty, but peaceful.