It wasn’t just on my face — it felt like it was under my skin, pulling the corners of my mouth up no matter how hard I tried to stop it. My jaw ached, but the grin stayed. It wasn’t mine. It was his.
The woman stared at me, her eyes narrowing. “You feel it now, don’t you?” she said softly. “It’s starting.”
I tried to speak, but my throat locked up. The only sound that came out was a strained, wheezing chuckle. My face burned, my muscles trembling from the forced smile.
“Don’t fight it,” she said, her voice low. “It gets worse if you fight it.”
The room felt wrong again — stretched, warped, flickering like a dying light. My head spun. The walls weren’t walls anymore. They pulsed, like something breathing behind them.
And then I heard his voice again, but it wasn’t coming from me this time. It was everywhere.
“You wear it well.”
My smile pulled tighter. My cheeks stung like they were splitting open.
The woman stepped closer, her expression shifting. It wasn’t anger anymore. It was pity.
“He’s not done with you.”
I wanted to ask what she meant, but the words wouldn’t come. My head was pounding, my vision blurring.
Then, she leaned in close and whispered:
“He’s smiling because you’re almost ready.”
Before I could react, the world flickered again — and she was gone.
The Stranger Who Wore My Face 17