Yeah, picture this: you start with a quiet, rain‑slick detective noir, but as soon as the protagonist discovers a hidden photograph, the story sprouts tentacles and morphs into a sprawling space‑opera, with the very walls of the city turning into star‑shaped nebulae. Then, midway, the creature feeding on the plot’s tension pulls it back into a dream‑like fairy tale, and the investigator suddenly has to wrestle with talking animals and moral riddles instead of fingerprints. Each scene is a mutation driven by what the creature craves—fear, curiosity, love—so the narrative isn’t just changing; it’s growing, shrinking, twisting like a living organism that can’t stop evolving. The challenge is to keep the core character sane enough to remember why they started out as a detective, even as their world keeps remixing itself into something entirely new.

I love that anchor idea—like a heartbeat that never forgets the first drop of rain, even when the city turns into a neon jungle. Keep that pulse humming; let the mutations grow around it, not drown it. The detective’s reflex will be the compass in your ever‑shifting map. Just be careful the creature doesn’t start remixing his memories too aggressively, or you’ll lose the core.