Fluorescent light hummed overhead, casting a harsh, unforgiving glare across the bathroom mirror. Staring back at me was a map of my own failures. Red, angry craters pitted my cheeks, and thick, jagged scars carved their way along my jawline. Seventeen years of hiding behind oversized hoodies had brought me here, to a cold bathroom counter piled high with professional-grade cosmetics. My fingers trembled as I unscrewed the cap of the heavy-duty primer. This wasn't ordinary makeup. It was spackle for a broken soul, a thick silicone barrier designed to fill the deep valleys of my ruined skin. Sulfur and tea tree oil hung heavy in the air, a familiar scent of my failed attempts to heal myself. With deliberate care, I smoothed the cold gel over my face, ignoring the familiar ache of cystic acne beneath my touch. Applying this felt slick, like plastic wrap clinging to a raw, open wound. Every slide of my fingertips reminded me of the painful reality I was trying to bury, but I forced my hands to remain steady. Green color-corrector came next. Dabbing the minty paste onto the worst of the purple and red scars felt like preparing a canvas for war. I watched the angry crimson of my cheeks slowly dissolve into a sickly, neutral gray. "Just a little more," I whispered, my voice sounding hollow in the cramped, steam-free room. Fear tightened in my chest, a cold weight that made it hard to draw a full breath. What if someone touched my face today? How would I survive if the heat of the late-summer sun melted my armor before the final bell? Memory of my father's departure flashed in my mind—the way he had looked at me with a mixture of pity and disappointment before walking out the door seven years ago. "You look so much like your mother," he had said, but his eyes had lingered on my blotchy, imperfect skin. Ever since, I had believed that beauty was the only currency that mattered. Duda had it in abundance. She was born with flawless, sun-kissed skin and a smile that could disarm a crowd. I was the shadow, the quiet girl who stood slightly behind her so the contrast wouldn't be too jarring. Using a damp sponge, I began pressing the thick, high-coverage foundation into my skin. Bounce, bounce, bounce. This repetitive motion became a rhythm, a desperate heartbeat of transformation. Flawless beige swallowed the gray. Layer by layer, the girl who had spent her entire life invisible vanished. In her place, a stranger emerged. Sharp cheekbones appeared where puffy, inflamed skin used to be. My nose looked narrower, carved out by a dark contour powder that I blended with frantic, sweeping strokes. Sweat beaded along my hairline, threatening to ruin the finish before I even started. Grabbing a large, fluffy brush, I buried it in translucent setting powder and pressed it hard against my forehead. A cloud of fine white dust filled the air, making me cough. Once the dust settled, I leaned in closer to the glass. Looking closer, I examined the masterpiece. Her skin was smooth, poreless, and completely radiant. She had full, pink lips and eyes that seemed to pop against the dramatic backdrop of mascara and eyeliner. But she wasn't me. This girl belonged on a billboard, or at least in the popular circle where my best friend, Duda, reigned supreme. Realization brought a sudden wave of nausea, a heavy dread that settled deep in my stomach. I was committing to a lie. Every day from now on would be a battle to keep this mask intact. If a single tear fell, or if I scraped my cheek, the illusion would crumble, exposing the monster underneath. "You can do this," I lied to the mirror. Snatching my bag from the floor, I unlocked the bathroom door. A quiet click sounded like a starting gun. My heart hammered against my ribs as I stepped out into the hallway, my new face feeling heavy, like wet plaster drying on my skull. --- Smells of fried eggs and cheap coffee drifted from the kitchen. I walked slowly down the short corridor, my sneakers silent on the worn linoleum. My mother stood by the stove, her back to me. Her hair was pulled into a messy bun, and her shoulders slumped with the exhaustion of working double shifts. "Mom?" I called out, my voice barely a squeak. Turning around, she wiped her hands on a dish towel. Her eyes swept over me, passing right through my face as if I were a ghost. One second. She looked toward the hallway behind me, expecting someone else. Two seconds. Her brow furrowed, her gaze sliding over my perfect features with absolute confusion. Three seconds. Silence in the kitchen was deafening, a cold blade slicing through the fragile warmth of the morning. Finally, her eyes locked onto my familiar, oversized school bag. "Ana?" she gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. "My god, what did you do to your face?" "I just... used some makeup," I mumbled, pulling my shoulders inward, trying to shrink back into the shadow I had lived in for seventeen years. Stepping closer, she reached out a hand to touch my cheek. I flinched, pulling back violently before her fingers could make contact and smudge the hours of hard work. "Don't," I snapped, harsher than I intended. "You'll ruin it." Hurt flickered in her eyes, quickly replaced by a profound sadness. She lowered her hand, letting it fall limply to her side. "You look... beautiful, sweetheart," she said, though her voice lacked any real warmth. "This is who I am now," I said, forcing a confidence I didn't feel. Grabbing an apple from the counter, I bolted out the front door before she could say another word. --- Heat rose from the cracked asphalt as I walked the three blocks to school. Every step felt like a tightrope walk. I kept my head down, terrified that the sweat building under my collar would travel up and melt the foundation on my chin. Cars rushed past, kicking up dust and exhaust. I crossed my arms, clutching my bag tightly against my chest. Normally, I walked with Duda, but she had texted earlier saying she was getting a ride with some of the popular crowd. She didn't know about the transformation yet. Nobody did. Anxiety gnawed at my stomach, a physical ache that made me want to turn around and run back to the safety of my dark bedroom. I had spent years praying to be noticed, to be something other than the ugly sidekick to Duda's shining light. Now, the prospect of actually being seen blossomed into sheer terror. If they looked too close, they would see the cracks. They would see the desperate, scarred girl hiding behind the expensive paint. Last year had ended in utter humiliation. I remembered the day clearly—the sticky heat of June, the crowded hallway, and Marcus Miller standing in front of my locker. He had laughed, holding up a bottle of water, and splashed it directly in my face "to wash off the dirt." Everyone had laughed. Even Duda had been too shocked to do anything but stare. I had run to the bathroom, crying so hard my cheap mascara ran down my neck in dark, ugly streaks. That was the day I decided I would never let them see my real skin again. This summer, while Duda was away at camp, I had locked myself in my room with a makeup kit bought with my secret savings. I spent hours watching tutorials, learning the chemistry of skin prep, color theory, and light placement. My face had become a battlefield of experimentation. Sometimes my skin would flare up in painful, bleeding protests, but I didn't stop. I couldn't stop. Survival meant abandoning the skin I was born in. --- Brick buildings of the high school loomed against the clear blue sky. Groups of students stood on the lawn, laughing, shouting, and reuniting after the long summer. Taking a deep breath, I adjusted the strap of my backpack. I smoothed down my new skirt—a piece of clothing I would have never dared to wear a month ago. Feet moving almost against my will, I approached the concrete steps. Several boys near the entrance stopped talking, their heads turning in unison as I walked past. Whispers erupted behind me. I kept my eyes fixed straight ahead, my jaw clenched so hard my teeth ached. "Who is that?" a girl muttered nearby. "Is she new?" another asked, her voice tinged with a mix of curiosity and immediate jealousy. Pride, sharp and intoxicating, flared in my chest. They were looking at me. Not with pity, not with disgust, but with genuine admiration. Duda was standing near the bike racks, surrounded by her usual entourage. She looked up, her blue eyes scanning the crowd, and for a fraction of a second, her gaze landed on me. Her eyes widened in disbelief, her mouth parting slightly as she tried to make sense of the girl standing where her invisible best friend should be. I wanted to wave, to show her it was me, but a sudden wave of panic froze my arm. What if she hated it? Perhaps she would feel betrayed by my sudden attempt to step into her spotlight. Suddenly, the suffocating dread lifted, replaced by a rush of adrenaline. I was doing it. For the first time in my life, I was surviving the gauntlet. But the victory was short-lived. Just as I reached the heavy glass doors of the school entrance, the air around me seemed to turn icy cold. A shadow fell over me, blocking the warm morning light. Before I could take another step, a heavy hand gripped my shoulder, freezing me in place. As Ana reaches the school gates, a heavy hand grips her shoulder, and Igor's raspy voice whispers directly into her ear: 'Nice mask, Ana. How long until it melts?'

Chapter 1: The Art of Artificial Skin