I couldn’t tell if I was walking toward him or if he was pulling me in.
The walls pulsed like a heartbeat, and the air felt thick, heavy. My head screamed to stop, to turn back — but my legs weren’t mine anymore.
He didn’t move. He didn’t have to. He just stood there, smiling with my face, watching me close the distance.
The woman behind him stepped forward. Her face — my face — was wrong now. Stretched too wide, skin too smooth, eyes too bright. She wasn’t smiling anymore. She looked sad.
“It’s not your turn yet,” she whispered.
The stranger’s head snapped toward her, the smile fading into something colder.
“It is now.”
Her face twisted, eyes burning with something between fear and fury. She reached for me — no, through me — and everything flickered. Like the world itself glitched.
For a second, I wasn’t there. I was back in the mirror. Back in his place.
I felt his weight. His face. His hunger.
And then I was back.
He wasn’t smiling anymore.
“You felt it, didn’t you?” he asked, voice low and sharp. “You fit better on this side than you think.”
I didn’t answer. I couldn’t. My throat felt locked shut.
The woman — the one with my face — took another step forward. This time, she wasn’t sad. She wasn’t afraid.
She looked furious.
“You brought him here,” she said, her voice trembling. “You let him wear you.”
The stranger didn’t stop her. He just tilted his head again, eyes never leaving mine.
The Stranger Who Wore My Face 16