Same beige walls.
Same bright white lights that hurt my head.
Same feeling of walking to my execution.
Everything is the same.
So why am I so fucking freaked out?
"If you could just remove your mask for the photos," she says, voice professionally cheerful. "For your records."
This is the part I hate most.
My hands move reluctantly to the edge of the gaiter that covers my lower face. I freeze. Take a moment to make myself calm down. Vision narrows to pinpricks, gray and hazy at the edges. I pull the mask down, the movements agonizingly slow so I don’t shock the assistant with it all at once.
Her eyes widen—just for a second—before she catches herself. Professional smile snapping back into place like a rubber band, too tight and strained. But I saw it. Always see it. That flash ofoh fuckbefore they remember they're supposed to be clinical about this.
"Just look straight ahead," she says, voice pitched slightly higher. "This won't take long."
The camera clicks feel like gunshots. Each flash makes me want to disappear into the floor. She takes them from multiple angles—front, both profiles, three-quarter views. Documenting the freak for their files.
"All done," she says, too bright, too fast.
I yank the mask back up immediately.
The fabric against my ruined face feels like armor, like I can breathe again. But the damage is done. That cold, sick feeling settles in my gut like I chugged ice water.
She leads me to the exam room. Still feels like I'm going to puke or pass out or both. I'm in a haze even as the assistant leaves me alone, the door closing with a soft click behind her like she thinks I'm going to go feral and attack her if she moves too fast.
I hear her whispering to someone just outside the door, her voice carrying despite her attempt at keeping it down.
“Holy fuck, he looks like Venom. All those sharp teeth…God… how is he even real? Do you think he did that on purpose?”
"Sarah." The older woman's tone is sharp. "That's a patient."
Their footsteps move away down the hall.
On purpose?
Why the fuck would Iwantthis?
My phone buzzes in my pocket and I jolt. I glance at it, expecting it to be the group text popping off with Whiskey's usual fun facts no one ever subscribed to, but it's Ivy.
And she's texting me alone.
Not everyone.
Just me.
IVY
Hey. You okay?
I stare at the message—and the heart at the end—for a long time, letting it bring me back to myself before typing back. I delete my reply over and over, not sure what to say.
Don't want to lie.
But don't want her to worry either.
