Chapter 20: Chapter 20

CHAPTER 20: The Skin in the Safe

The Taoist's beads stopped clicking.

For a long moment, no one moved. Mrs. Chen's face hung in that terrible half-smile, tears still wet on her cheeks. The operating room lights hummed. Fang's scalpel caught the glare.

Then the Taoist's phone rang.

It was an old sound. A Nokia ringtone from twenty years ago. The Taoist pulled the phone from his robe with the careful slowness of a man who knew exactly what he would find on the screen.

He looked at it.

His face went pale.

"They found the temple," he said.

Fang blinked. "What?"

"The temple. My temple. The one where I kept the unguided souls." The Taoist's voice was flat. Mechanical. Like he was reading a report. "Someone broke in. Took the remaining vessels. Smashed the containment circles."

"Who?"

The Taoist looked up. His eyes were old now. Not with age. With something that had been old for a very long time.

"Your patients, Doctor. All of them. Every woman you've treated in the last six months. They're gathered outside your clinic right now."

Fang stepped to the window. Pulled the blind.

The parking lot was full.

Not with cars. With women.

They stood in rows. Perfectly still. Perfectly silent. Their faces were smooth and young and beautiful. Their eyes were open but empty. They stared at the clinic like they were waiting for something.

"Thirty-seven of them," the Taoist said. "The same number of containers in your basement."

"How do you know about my basement?"

"Because I've been watching you for three months. You're not as careful as you think." The Taoist pocketed his phone. "Those women out there? They're not your patients anymore. They're vessels. Containers. The spirits you skinned have been growing inside them. Feeding on their life force. And now they're ready to hatch."

Mrs. Chen's face laughed again. The sound came from somewhere deep in her throat, vibrating through the skin that wasn't hers.

"Hatch is a good word," she said. "I like that."

Fang's scalpel hand trembled. "What happens when they hatch?"

The Taoist didn't answer.

Instead, he walked to Mrs. Chen's bedside. He looked down at her. Then he did something Fang didn't expect.

He sat down.

"I met a woman once," the Taoist said. "A long time ago. She came to me with a problem. She said her face didn't feel like her own. Said she looked in the mirror and saw a stranger." He paused. "I told her she was lucky. Most people spend their whole lives trying to become someone else. She'd already done it."

Mrs. Chen's face stopped smiling.

"What are you doing?" she whispered.

"Telling a story." The Taoist's voice was soft. Almost kind. "The woman asked me to help her find her original face. The one she'd lost. I told her I couldn't. Because she hadn't lost it. She'd sold it. Traded it for a newer model. A younger one. A prettier one."

He looked at Mrs. Chen's eyes. "Sound familiar?"

"I didn't—"

"You did. You went to a back-alley cosmetic surgeon. Paid him to give you a face that wasn't yours. And now that face wants to go home." The Taoist reached out. His fingers touched Mrs. Chen's cheek. "But here's the thing about faces. They remember. They remember the person they belonged to. They remember the life they lived. The love they felt. The pain they endured."

Mrs. Chen's body started to shake.

"She was a singer," the Taoist continued. "The girl whose skin you're wearing. She sang in karaoke bars. She was saving money to go to university. She had a boyfriend who bought her flowers every Friday. She was going to be someone."

"Stop," Mrs. Chen whispered.

"She was murdered. In a bathroom. By a man who wanted her face." The Taoist's voice hardened. "He cut it off while she was still alive. Took it to a doctor who traded in human skin. And that doctor glued it onto you."

Mrs. Chen's mouth opened. A sound came out. Not a scream. Not a sob. Something in between. Something that had been trapped for months.

"She's inside me," Mrs. Chen said. Her voice was breaking. "I can feel her. She's been there since the surgery. Watching. Waiting. She knows everything about me. She knows my daughter's name. She knows my husband's favorite song. She knows where I keep the spare key."

"She's not just inside you," the Taoist said. "She's becoming you. Every day, she takes a little more. And soon—"

"Soon there won't be enough of me left to fight."

The Taoist nodded.

Mrs. Chen's face started to cry. Real tears. Her own tears. "I didn't know. When I went to Doctor Fang, I didn't know where the skin came from. I thought it was synthetic. I thought—"

"You thought you could cheat time." The Taoist stood up. "But time doesn't cheat. It collects. And now it's come to collect from you."

He turned to Fang. "You have thirty minutes. Maybe less. Those women outside are going to wake up. And when they do, they're going to remember everything. They're going to remember the faces they lost. The lives they lived. The moment they were cut open and hollowed out."

"And then?"

"And then they're going to come inside. They're going to find your basement. They're going to open every container. And they're going to take back what belongs to them."

Fang's phone buzzed.

He looked at it.

*Doctor Fang, my skin is moving. It's trying to get off.*

Another message:

*Doctor Fang, I can hear her crying. She's inside my head. She won't stop.*

Another:

*Doctor Fang, she's showing me memories that aren't mine. I saw a man with a knife. I saw my own face on a table. I saw you holding it.*

Fang dropped the phone.

"How did they get my number?"

"Because they're part of you now," the Taoist said. "Every patient you've treated. Every face you've stolen. They're all connected. Through the skin. Through the blood. Through the screams you tried to forget."

Mrs. Chen sat up.

Her body moved wrong. The joints didn't bend the way they should. The muscles didn't pull the right way. It was like watching a puppet whose strings were being pulled by someone who had never seen a human before.

"I remember," she said. Her voice was layered now. Two voices. Hers and the singer's. "I remember everything. The bathroom. The knife. The way he talked to me while he cut."

She looked at Fang.

"His name was Wang. He wore a blue jacket. He smelled like cigarettes. He told me I had beautiful skin and he was sorry but he needed it more than I did."

Fang's stomach turned.

"You knew him," Mrs. Chen said. "He brought you my face in a Ziploc bag. You paid him five thousand yuan. You didn't ask questions."

The Taoist stepped between them. "That's enough."

"No," Mrs. Chen said. "It's not enough. It will never be enough."

She swung her legs off the bed. Stood up. Her body swayed. Her new face was calm now. Serene. Like a lake after a storm.

"I'm going to go outside," she said. "I'm going to join the others. And we're going to wait."

"For what?"

"For the doors to open. For the barriers to fall. For the moment when the skin remembers what it used to be."

She walked to the door. Her steps were steady now. Growing more human with each stride.

"Doctor Fang," she said. "I want you to watch. I want you to see what happens when thirty-seven women take back their faces all at once."

She left.

The door swung shut.

The Taoist turned to Fang. "The collection. Where is it?"

"Basement. Behind the refrigerator. There's a false wall."

"Show me."

Fang led him through the clinic. The hallways were dark. The emergency lights had kicked in. Red glow. Long shadows.

They passed the recovery rooms. Empty beds. Empty chairs. The patients had all gone outside.

They passed the consultation office. Fang's desk. His certificates. His photos with satisfied customers.

The Taoist stopped.

"This woman," he said, pointing to a photo. "When did you treat her?"

"Six months ago."

"She's dead now. The spirit took her completely three days ago. She walked into traffic while her husband watched."

Fang looked at the photo. The woman was smiling. Young. Beautiful. Happy.

"My wife," Fang said. "I didn't know."

"Of course you didn't know. You never asked. You never wanted to know what happened after they left your clinic." The Taoist grabbed Fang's arm. "Basement. Now."

The basement stairs were narrow. Concrete. The light was flickering.

At the bottom, the refrigerator hummed. Titanium racks. Glass containers.

The Taoist walked past it. Found the false wall. Pulled it open.

Behind it was a room.

Jars. Hundreds of them. Floating in formaldehyde. Pieces of skin. Whole faces. Fingers. Lips. Eyelids. All preserved. All waiting.

"My God," the Taoist whispered. "You've been doing this for years."

"People want to be beautiful," Fang said. "I gave them what they wanted."

"You gave them death."

The Taoist walked through the room. His beads clicked. His eyes moved from jar to jar.

"These spirits. They're all here. All trapped. All waiting."

"Waiting for what?"

The Taoist stopped at a jar. It was different from the others. Larger. Darker.

"You killed her in the karaoke bar," he said. "But she wasn't your first. She wasn't even your tenth."

He turned the jar.

Inside, a face floated. Eyes open. Mouth open. Frozen in a scream.

"This was your first," the Taoist said. "Twenty years ago. A college student. She came to you for a mole removal. You killed her in the chair. Took her whole face. Framed it."

Fang's hands were shaking.

"How do you know that?"

"Because she's been screaming in my dreams for nineteen years." The Taoist set the jar down. "I've been hunting you. Hunting this collection. Hunting the truth."

He looked at Fang.

"And now I've found it."

The lights flickered. The jars vibrated. The room grew cold.

From upstairs, a sound.

Footsteps. Many of them. Coming down the stairs.

The Taoist didn't move.

"They're here," he said. "And they're not going to leave anything behind."