Ch.31: The Midpoint Shift

The Russian woman—Client X—has left. The scent of her expensive perfume, something musky and cold like winter in Moscow, lingers in the stale air of the furnace room.

I am still processing the truth.

Aris isn't a plastic surgeon. He's a bespoke tailor for the underworld. And I am the fabric.

My value has plummeted.

Before, I thought I was essential. I was the source code. The genetic template. As long as Isabella wore my face, I was the battery that kept it alive.

But if Isabella is just a mannequin... if she is just a temporary vessel to keep the tissue warm and proven...

Then once the face is harvested for the final client, I am useless.

Zero value.

And things with zero value in this house go into the furnace.

"Thorne," I whisper. "Is it true?"

Thorne is leaning against the wall, his face grey with pain. He nods.

"It explains everything," he rasps. "Why he kept you alive. Why he let Isabella think she was the mistress. He played everyone."

He coughs, clutching his ribs.

"He needed a stress test. He needed to know if the graft would hold up under real-world conditions. Sunlight. Emotion. Smiling. Screaming."

He looks at me. His eyes are full of a terrible pity.

"Isabella isn't the lucky one, Elena. She's the crash test dummy."

The realization hits me like a physical blow.

Isabella. Vain, cruel, desperate Isabella. She thinks she won the lottery. She thinks she stole the handsome doctor and the beautiful wife's life.

She doesn't know she's just keeping the seat warm.

She doesn't know that in a few hours, Aris is going to strap her to a table and peel that face off again.

And this time, he won't be careful with what's underneath.

"The necrosis," I say, my mind racing. "The grey spots. The rejection."

"The product is damaged," Thorne confirms. "That's why the client was pissed. That's why she checked your hands. She's looking for replacement parts."

"If the face is ruined..."

"Then the deal is off," Thorne finishes. "And if the deal is off, Aris loses fifty million dollars. And his reputation. And probably his life, given who these clients are."

He tries to stand up. He stumbles.

"We have to stop him," he wheezes. "Before he cuts her."

"Why?" I ask bitterly. "Let him cut her. She deserves it."

Thorne looks at me. He sees the hate in my eye.

"Because if the deal falls through, he kills us all to cover his tracks. But if we can expose him... if we can show the client that the merchandise is poisoned..."

"Poisoned?"

"You," Thorne says. "Your blood. You said you were fighting back. You said you were making the graft fail."

I nod. "Greta spiked my IV. Adrenaline. Stress hormones."

"That's why the face is turning grey," Thorne says. "It's not necrotic. It's starved. It's reacting to the donor's distress."

He grins. It’s a bloody, terrifying grin.

"If we can prove that to the client... if we can prove that Aris sold her damaged goods..."

"She'll kill him," I whisper.

"She'll tear him apart."

It’s a plan. A desperate, insane plan. But it’s all we have.

We just need to get out of this room.

Thorne limps to the door. He checks the lock.

"Still sealed," he mutters. "And the guards took my tools."

He looks around the small room. It’s empty except for the furnace and a few metal buckets for ash.

Then he looks at the vent near the ceiling.

"The air handler," he says. "I shut it down to stop the gas. But the ductwork... it connects to the main system."

He points up.

"If I can get into the vent, I can crawl to the lab. I can override the lockdown manually."

"You can't climb," I say, looking at his broken body. "You can barely stand."

"I have to," he says.

He drags a bucket over to the wall. He steps up. He groans, his face turning white as his broken ribs shift.

He reaches for the grate.

*CLANG.*

The door to the furnace room opens.

Aris stands there.

He isn't wearing his suit anymore. He is wearing surgical scrubs. Blue. Pristine.

He is holding a syringe.

"Going somewhere, Detective?" he asks pleasantly.

Thorne freezes. He is balanced on the bucket, one hand on the vent.

"Just checking the ventilation," Thorne says. "Seems a bit stuffy in here."

Aris smiles. It doesn't reach his eyes.

"It's about to get much hotter."

He steps aside.

Two guards enter. They are carrying Isabella.

She is unconscious. Limp. Her face is covered in a sterile drape.

They dump her onto the concrete floor.

"Isabella?" I whisper.

Aris looks at me. He looks at the open door between my cell and the furnace room—the door the client left open.

"Ah," he says. "The donor and the host. Reunited."

He walks over to Isabella. He pulls the drape off her face.

It’s worse than I thought. The grey patches have spread. The skin is sloughing off in sheets. The underlying muscle is exposed, raw and weeping.

"It's ruined," Aris says, his voice flat. "Complete graft failure. The client refused delivery."

He looks at me.

"Do you know how much money you cost me tonight, Elena?"

He holds up the syringe.

"Fifty. Million. Dollars."

He walks toward me.

"I can't sell the face," he says. "But I can sell the rest. The corneas. The kidneys. The liver. The market for parts is always open."

He enters my cell.

"And you, Detective," he calls back to Thorne. "You get the fire. No parts left to sell on you."

He signals the guards.

One of them moves toward the furnace control panel. He puts his hand on the lever to ignite the main burner.

The other guard moves toward Thorne.

Aris grabs my arm. He finds a vein.

"Say goodnight, Elena."

He brings the needle down.

"Wait!"

The shout comes from the floor.

Isabella.

She isn't unconscious. She was faking.

She sits up. She looks at Aris. She looks at me.

Her face is a horror show of peeling skin and blood, but her eyes... her eyes are clear.

"You lied to me," she croaks.

Aris stops. He looks at her with annoyance.

"Go back to sleep, Bella. The adults are talking."

"You said I was the one," she says, her voice gaining strength. "You said I was the masterpiece."

She stands up. She sways, but she stays upright.

"But I'm just packaging, aren't I?"

She touches her ruined face.

"I was just a test drive."

Aris sighs. "Bella, please. Not now."

"You sold me!" she screams. "You sold *her* face on *my* head!"

She lunges.

Not at Aris. At the guard by the furnace.

She grabs the metal ash bucket Thorne was standing on. She swings it.

*CLANG.*

She hits the guard in the head. He drops like a stone.

The other guard pulls his gun.

Thorne tackles him. Broken ribs and all, he drives his shoulder into the man's gut.

Chaos erupts.

Aris drops the syringe. He backs away, his eyes wide.

"Isabella! Stop!"

She ignores him. She grabs the fallen guard's gun.

She doesn't aim it at Aris. She doesn't aim it at Thorne.

She aims it at herself.

At her face.

"You want it?" she screams, tears mixing with the blood on her cheeks. "You want the merchandise?"

She presses the barrel into the soft, rotting tissue of her cheek.

"Isabella is walking around to test the durability. The real buyer arrives in 30 days."

"Well, the test drive is over," she whispers.

She cocks the gun.