Chapter 1
1439words
Blood trickled down my jawline, dripping onto the white tablecloth like crimson flowers blooming in snow.
And all of this began three months ago, with that hideous photo that spread like wildfire through the entire school.
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The harsh light from my phone screen cut through the darkness.
On the " Mountain High School Hot Gossip" homepage, my face filled the entire screen—a catastrophic bare-faced photo.
It was taken after they made me remove my makeup on yearbook photo day. My face dotted with acne, metal braces gleaming in the flash.
The caption beneath the photo read: "Guess who's the hidden gem of our yearbook? #NoFilter #PureNaturalNightmare"
My stomach clenched like it was gripped by an ice-cold hand, the air vanishing from my lungs.
The next day, walking into the school hallway felt like being naked in Times Square. Every whisper from people brushing past me felt like sticky fingers on my skin. Those stares—pitying, contemptuous, or just plain mocking—burned like needles piercing my flesh.
I stopped at my locker, where Savannah Pierce and her friends were leaning, laughing way too loudly. Her flawless face—like something AI-generated—and her golden hair caught the sunlight streaming through the windows.
When she spotted me, she switched her laughter to a fake concerned look. "Oh, Jules, honey. I saw that photo. God, it's just awful. Are you okay?"
Her voice dripped with fake sweetness, each word coated in poison.
I didn't say anything. Just opened my locker and buried my face inside, pretending to search for something I'd never find in a million years.
I didn't speak to anyone that entire day.
The school had become a massive execution ground, and I was the lone prisoner facing the guillotine.
By nightfall, that feeling of being abandoned by the entire world hit its peak. I couldn't breathe—like a boulder was crushing my chest. I needed to escape—from my room, from my life, from this face that gave me nowhere to hide.
I threw on a hoodie, zipped it up tight, buried my face in the shadows, and slipped out of the house.
Los Angeles nights are never truly dark—the city's neon glow stains the sky that sickly orange-red. I wandered aimlessly until my feet carried me to the Colorado Street Bridge.
It's an old arched bridge, infamous as the "Suicide Bridge." I didn't actually want to die; I just needed a place where I could feel close to the sky and far from the ground.
I climbed onto the cold concrete railing and sat on the edge, legs dangling into the bottomless darkness. Below me stretched the dried-up riverbed and howling traffic, while city lights flickered in the distance.
The evening wind whipped my hoodie around and dried the tears I couldn't shed. Just when I thought I was the only person left in the world, a voice cut through the silence behind me.
"If you're gonna jump, could you hurry up? You're blocking my view of the scenery."
I jumped and spun around.
A guy stood not far away, leaning against the railing with an unlit cigarette between his fingers. Tall, wearing a simple black T-shirt, dark hair slightly tousled by the wind. The streetlight outlined his profile, highlighting his sharp jawline.
It was Leo Vance.
The untouchable god of our school, that painting prodigy. I'd seen his artwork at exhibitions and heard the stories—son of a washed-up action star, naturally reclusive, never letting anyone get close.
His eyes held zero sympathy as he looked at me—just pure, impatient meanness.
"I wasn't going to jump." My voice came out dry and scratchy.
"Really?" He let out a small, mocking laugh. "Then why are you sitting here in the middle of the night? Having a heart-to-heart with the moon?"
"It's none of your business." I turned away, not wanting to look at his smug face anymore.
"You're right, it's not," he said, slowly walking closer and stopping a few steps away. "But you're in my favorite spot."
I couldn't believe my ears. Was this jerk seriously complaining that I'd disturbed his me-time?
"Do you own every bridge in the world?" I snapped back.
"No," he said coolly, "just this spot on this bridge, where I come when I'm in a terrible mood. And you, miss, are polluting the air here."
His words hit like a poison-dipped dagger, stabbing right into my most vulnerable spot. Humiliation and anger instantly drowned out my despair.
I jumped down from the railing so fast I almost stumbled. I glared at him, putting every ounce of strength into my words: "You are a complete and utter jerk."
His face barely changed, only those deep eyes seemed darker in the night. "Thanks for the compliment. Can you leave now?"
I was shaking with anger, not wanting to spend another second with this cold-blooded jerk. I shoved past his shoulder and stormed off the bridge without looking back.
No sound came from behind, like he'd never even existed.
Back home, I threw myself onto the bed, covered my head with a pillow, and screamed silently. That jerk's words kept echoing in my head—"polluting the air."
Yes, I am pollution. My face, my very existence is pollution.
Despair crashed over me like a wave. I grabbed my phone, fingers mindlessly scrolling through videos, trying to numb myself with meaningless content.
Then a video caught my eye.
A girl faced the camera—half her face had severely damaged skin, horribly ulcerated, shocking to see. Yet the other half was perfectly smooth.
Then she started showing how she'd created this "half face" effect.
Her hands moved like a magician's, skillfully working with brushes, sponges, and palettes. Silicone, skin wax, oil paints—things I'd never heard of were, under her control, miraculously transforming the texture and color of skin.
At the end, she smiled as she peeled off that layer of "festering" skin, revealing her perfect face underneath.
The title read: "Don't let your appearance define you. Create yourself."
In that moment, it was like lightning split open the darkness in my mind.
Create myself.
Yes, if this face was the root of my suffering, why couldn't I destroy it with my own hands and create a new one?
Hope—an almost insane, desperate hope—exploded inside me.
I leapt off my bed, rushed to my computer, and with trembling fingers typed: "Hollywood special effects makeup tutorials."
From that day on, my entire life condensed into this one thing. I spent all my savings from part-time jobs on professional makeup tools and materials. Packages arrived daily, and my bedroom transformed into a mad scientist's lab.
I locked myself in my room, watching tutorials and practicing non-stop. I experimented on my face, arms, and even on mannequin heads I'd bought. I learned to use skin wax to smooth out pores, reshape bone structure with shadows and highlights, and paint realistic skin texture with alcohol-based paints.
My world shrank to the feel of brushes, the smell of paints, and the ever-changing face in the mirror. I barely left my room that entire summer before school started.
Then came the first day of the new semester.
The girl in the mirror looked like a stranger.
Her face was flawless—perfect skin without a single blemish, radiating a healthy glow. Her eyes looked deep and captivating under carefully drawn eyeliner, while her high nose bridge and full lips formed a breathtaking curve.
It wasn't me, yet it was undeniably me. An artwork I'd sculpted through countless days and nights, with sweat and paint.
I slipped on a simple black dress and walked onto campus.
The world instantly fell silent.
In the hallway, those who once mocked me now stared with astonished, disbelieving eyes. I could hear their whispers, but this time, they weren't painful noise—just background music.
I walked with my head high, looking straight ahead, each step feeling like I was floating. This mask gave me armor and strength I'd never known before.
Just as I was about to enter the main building, two people brushed past me.
One was Leo Vance. He was talking with his friends when he glanced over casually, his gaze stopping on my face. He frowned slightly, and for the first time, those usually detached eyes showed a curiosity I couldn't quite read.
The other one, I'd only seen on posters for school band performances.
Ryder Kang. That rebellious underground band vocalist with silver-gray hair and tattoo-covered arms. He stopped dead, turned around, and shamelessly looked me up and down, his lips curling into a playful smile.
