Chapter 4: The Collection Opens

The basement air tasted like copper and formaldehyde.

Dr. Fang pressed his palm flat against the cold metal door, feeling the vibration of the city above him. Ten floors of sterile clinic. Fifty meters of elevator shaft. And beneath it all, his true work.

The lock clicked. The door swung inward.

His collection waited in the dark.

Rows of glass jars lined the walls, each one filled with a pale amber solution. Some held complete faces, preserved like masks suspended in honey. Others contained smaller pieces—a perfect nose bridge, high cheekbones, the delicate curve of a jawline. Each one had cost him something. A surgical fee. A patient's trust. A spirit's final scream.

He walked past the first three rows without stopping. These were old stock. Inferior. The skin had been harvested too quickly, without proper ritual preparation. The women had aged again within months, their faces collapsing like deflating balloons. He'd learned from those mistakes.

The fourth row held his masterpieces.

He stopped at jar number forty-seven. Inside, a face floated in perfect stillness. Heart-shaped. Porcelain pale. Lips that curved into a gentle pout even in death. The woman had been twenty-three when she came to him, crying about the fine lines around her eyes. He'd promised her a solution. He'd given her one.

The face was still flawless six months later. Her skin hadn't rotted. It hadn't rejected the transplant. It hadn't done anything except make her the most beautiful woman in any room she entered.

He smiled.

"Still holding up, Lin?"

The face did not respond. It never did. That was the point.

His phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out, squinting at the screen.

*Dr. Fang, I need to see you. Urgent. It's about my face. - Mrs. Chen*

He frowned. Mrs. Chen was a twenty-year patient. Loyal. Wealthy. Discreet. She'd had her first transplant five years ago, and the results had been exceptional. No complications. No rejection. She'd referred him a dozen new clients since then.

He typed back: *What seems to be the problem?*

The reply came in seconds: *I can't explain. Just come. Please.*

He pocketed the phone and took one last look at his collection. The jars gleamed in the dim light, row after row of perfect faces waiting for their second chance at life. He'd built this empire from nothing. From a tiny clinic in a run-down building to a penthouse suite in the most expensive district in Shanghai. From a nobody to the most sought-after cosmetic surgeon in the city.

And now someone was threatening to tear it all apart.

The Taoist had been asking questions. Old Man Wang from the herbal shop on Nanjing Road had called to warn him. "She's been poking around," he'd said, his voice a dry rasp. "Asking about unusual procedures. About skin grafts. About ghosts."

Fang had laughed it off. "Superstitious nonsense."

But he'd installed the basement lock that same day.

He turned off the lights and climbed back up the stairs, sealing the door behind him. The elevator ride to the ground floor felt longer than usual. He checked his phone again. Mrs. Chen had sent another message: *Please hurry. I'm in the VIP consultation room.*

The lobby was empty at this hour. The receptionist had gone home. The cleaning crew wouldn't arrive until midnight. He walked through the marble-floored hallway, his footsteps echoing off the walls, until he reached the VIP suite.

He knocked twice. "Mrs. Chen?"

The door opened a crack. A single eye peered out at him, bloodshot and wild. "Get in. Quickly."

He slipped through the gap, and the door slammed shut behind him.

The room was dim, lit only by a single lamp. Mrs. Chen stood with her back to him, her shoulders shaking. She wore a silk robe that she'd bought from his clinic's boutique, worth more than most people's monthly salary. Her hair was perfectly styled, as always.

But something was wrong.

"I need you to understand something," she said, her voice trembling. "I didn't want to come here. I tried everything else. But nothing works."

"What are you talking about?"

She turned around.

Fang's breath caught in his throat.

The face was wrong. It was Mrs. Chen's face, yes. But it was also someone else's. Someone younger. Someone who had died in this very clinic three years ago.

The features were shifting.

Her left eye drooped, then tightened. Her nose bridge collapsed, then rebuilt itself. Her cheekbones rose and fell like waves on a stormy sea. And beneath it all, her skin rippled with a life of its own.

"I can feel it moving," she whispered. "Every day, it moves more. At first, I thought it was just swelling. But then I looked in the mirror, and I saw her."

"Who?"

"The girl. The one whose face you gave me."

Fang's blood ran cold. "That's impossible. The procedure is permanent."

"No." Mrs. Chen stepped closer, and he saw the tears streaming down her morphing face. "It's not permanent. It's just borrowed. And she wants it back."

She grabbed his hand and pressed it against her cheek. The skin was warm. Too warm. Alive. He felt something moving beneath it, like a snake writhing under silk.

"She talks to me at night," Mrs. Chen said. "She tells me what she's going to do. She's going to tear my face off from the inside. She's going to wear it until it rots. And then she's going to find you."

Fang pulled his hand away. "This is impossible. I've done hundreds of these procedures. Nothing like this has ever happened."

"Then why did it happen to me?"

He didn't have an answer.

The skin on her face rippled again, and for a split second, he saw the face beneath. The original face. The dead face. It stared at him with hollow eyes and a mouth that stretched into a grin.

"You need to remove it," Mrs. Chen said. "Tonight. Right now. I don't care what it costs."

"I can't."

"WHAT?"

He stepped back, raising his hands. "The procedure can't be reversed. The skin grafts bond with the host tissue. Removing them would destroy your face entirely."

"Then what am I supposed to do?"

Fang's mind raced. He'd never prepared for this. He'd never thought it would happen. The spirits were supposed to be trapped. Suppressed. He'd performed the rituals perfectly. He'd followed every step of the ancient texts.

But maybe the texts had been wrong.

Maybe the spirits had been waiting all along.

"Give me two days," he said. "I need to consult with someone. A specialist."

"What specialist?"

He didn't answer. He was already thinking of the Taoist. The one who had been asking questions. The one who might know how to undo what he'd done.

But if he went to her, he'd be admitting everything. He'd be handing her the evidence she needed to destroy him.

He had no choice.

"Stay here," he said. "Don't leave this room. Don't look in any mirrors. I'll be back."

Mrs. Chen grabbed his arm. Her grip was iron. "If you don't come back, I'll go to the police. I'll tell them everything."

"You won't."

"Why not?"

"Because if you do, they'll find out what you did. What you paid for. What you knew." He leaned in close, his voice dropping to a whisper. "And then they'll take your face away. And you'll be left with nothing."

She let go.

He walked out of the room, his heart pounding in his chest. The hallway stretched before him, endless and empty. He could feel the weight of the building above him, the weight of all those faces waiting in the dark.

The Taoist's shop was on the outskirts of the city. An hour's drive, maybe more. He didn't know if she'd be there. He didn't know if she'd help him.

But he had to try.

He was halfway to the elevator when his phone buzzed again.

A new message. From an unknown number.

*Dr. Fang.*

*We know what you keep in the basement.*

*We're coming for it.*

He stared at the screen, his blood turning to ice.

The elevator doors opened.

The Taoist stepped out.

She was shorter than he'd imagined. Older. Her face was lined with years of wisdom and hardship, her eyes sharp as knives. She wore a simple grey robe, and around her neck hung a jade pendant that glowed with a faint inner light.

"Dr. Fang," she said. "I was just about to visit you."

He looked from her to the phone in his hand. The message was gone. Vanished. As if it had never existed.

"Who else knows?" he asked.

She smiled. It was not a kind smile.

"Everyone who matters. And everyone who doesn't."

She stepped past him, toward the VIP room where Mrs. Chen was waiting.

He watched her go, too stunned to move.

The elevator doors closed behind her.

And in the basement, ten floors below, the first jar began to crack.