Ch.32: The Buyer

"Pull it," Aris whispers.

He isn't pleading. He is daring her. He stands amidst the wreckage of the furnace room, ignoring the unconscious guard, ignoring Thorne gasping for air against the wall. His eyes are locked on Isabella.

"Pull the trigger, Bella. Ruin the merchandise. Prove to me you're nothing but a spoiled child throwing a tantrum."

Isabella’s hand trembles. The barrel of the gun digs into the rotting gray flesh of her cheek.

"I hate you," she sobs. "I hate what you made me."

"I made you a masterpiece," Aris counters, stepping closer. He moves slowly, like approaching a wild animal. "And now, the Buyer is upstairs. The Proxy has arrived. He's here to finalize the transfer."

Isabella freezes. "The Buyer?"

"He brought the rest of the payment," Aris lies smoothly. "And his own medical team. The best in the world. They can fix the rejection, Bella. They can stabilize the graft."

He reaches out. He places his hand over hers on the gun.

"But only if there is a face left to save."

Isabella wavers. The hope is a poison, paralyzed her trigger finger. She wants to believe him. She wants to be beautiful again more than she wants to be dead.

"You promise?" she whispers.

"I promise."

Aris twists the gun from her grip.

In one fluid motion, he strikes her. He pistol-whips her across the temple.

Isabella crumples to the floor, unconscious.

"Secure them," Aris barks at the remaining guard. "Lock the detective in the furnace. Strap Elena to the chair. The Proxy wants to see the donor and the product side-by-side."

The guard drags Thorne back into the furnace staging room and slams the heavy iron door. I hear the lock engage.

Then he grabs me. He hauls me up and straps me into the wheelchair in the corner. He wheels me into the center of the room, positioning me so I am facing the door.

Aris drags Isabella’s limp body to the exam table. He injects her with a stimulant.

"Wake up," he slaps her cheek lightly. "Showtime."

Isabella gasps, her eyes fluttering open. She looks around, confused, terrified.

"Aris?"

"Stand up," he orders. "Stand up and smile."

The door to the hallway opens.

A man walks in.

He is not what I expected. He isn't a thug or a cartel boss. He is a small, unassuming man in a bespoke grey suit. He carries a tablet and wears rimless glasses. He looks like an accountant.

Or an undertaker.

"Mr. Vane," the man says. His voice is dry, precise. "My employer is... concerned. The biometric data stream has been erratic."

"A minor technical glitch," Aris says, gesturing to Isabella. "As you can see, the subject is mobile. The integration is complete."

The Proxy walks over to Isabella. He doesn't introduce himself. He doesn't acknowledge her humanity.

He pulls a pair of calipers from his pocket.

"Tilt," he commands.

Isabella flinches but obeys. She tilts her head back.

The Proxy measures the distance between her cheekbones. He measures the jawline. He measures the bridge of the nose.

"Swelling is substantial," he notes, tapping the data into his tablet. "And the discoloration?"

"Post-operative bruising," Aris lies. "It will fade."

The Proxy reaches out. He runs a gloved finger over the grey patch on Isabella's cheek. The skin is papery, dry. It crinkles under his touch.

"This is not bruising," the Proxy says coldly. "This is vascular compromise."

He turns to me.

He walks over to my wheelchair. He looks at my raw, bandaged face. He looks at my single eye.

"The donor?" he asks.

"Yes," Aris says. "Elena Vane."

The Proxy grabs my chin. He turns my head left, then right. He inspects the harvest sites.

"Clean extraction," he murmurs. "Good preservation of the underlying structure."

He looks back at Isabella.

"The host is the problem," he concludes. "She is rejecting the asset."

"I can stabilize it," Aris insists. "I just need more time. More immunosuppressants."

"Time is a luxury my employer does not have," the Proxy says. "She needs the new identity by the end of the month. The face must be durable. It must withstand... rigorous usage."

He walks back to Isabella.

He stares at her. Isabella trembles under his gaze. She tries to smile, but the movement pulls at the dying skin, creating a grotesque, rictus grin.

"She looks fragile," the Proxy says.

"She is healing," Aris argues.

"We need to know if the attachment points are sound," the Proxy says. "We need a stress test."

"A stress test?" Aris asks. "I can run a CT scan, I can—"

"No," the Proxy interrupts. He puts the tablet away. "Physical stress. Kinetic impact."

He steps back.

"Hit her."

The room goes silent.

Isabella’s eyes widen. "What?"

"Hit her," the Proxy repeats, looking at Aris. "Open hand. Full force. To the graft site."

"That could tear the sutures," Aris protests. "It could cause a hematoma."

"If the face cannot take a slap," the Proxy says calmly, "it will not survive my employer's lifestyle. And if it cannot survive, we do not pay."

He checks his watch.

"Do it. Or the deal is void."

Aris looks at the Proxy. He looks at me. He looks at the fifty million dollars evaporating into the air.

Then he looks at Isabella.

Isabella shakes her head. "Aris, please. No. You love me."

Aris steps forward. His face is a mask of cold calculation.

"I need the money, Bella," he whispers.

He pulls his hand back.

I try to close my eye. I don't want to watch.

But I can't look away.

Aris swings.

*CRACK.*

The sound is sickening. Wet meat slapping against bone.

Isabella screams. Her head snaps to the side. She stumbles, catching herself on the edge of the table.

She brings her hands to her face. She pulls them away.

They are bloody.

But the blood isn't gushing. It’s weeping.

The graft held. It didn't tear off. The sutures stretched, the skin bruised instantly, turning a deep, angry purple over the grey, but it stayed attached.

Aris breathes a sigh of relief.

The Proxy nods. He steps closer, inspecting the impact site.

"Adequate," he decides. "The tensile strength is acceptable."

He turns to Aris.

"Prepare the package for transport. We will take delivery in twenty-four hours."

Isabella is sobbing. Not from the pain. From the betrayal.

She looks at Aris. The man she destroyed my life for. The man she stole a face for.

He is wiping her blood off his hand with a handkerchief. He looks annoyed that she bled on him.

She looks at me.

I meet her gaze.

There is no triumph in it. No victory. Just a shared, hollow horror.

She finally understands.

She isn't the mistress. She isn't the wife.

She is the merchandise.

Aris slapped Isabella. My face didn't tear, but her spirit did.