Skin of Lies

Lan Hawke had spent his life trying to disappear. At school, he was the guy everyone ignored. His desk sat tucked away in the back corner, where the fluorescent lights didn’t quite reach. Every lunch break, he’d retreat to the deserted far end of the library, burying himself in books, not because he loved reading, but because stories were the only places where someone like him could be a hero.

He used to dream that one day someone would see him. Not just look in his direction, but really see him. Yet, the glances he did receive were quick, fleeting, always followed by averted eyes. There was something unsettling about Lan, something intangible that made people uncomfortable. His classmates never said it out loud, but Lan could see it in their wrinkled noses and hesitant conversations. He was an outsider, the gray smear in a world full of color.

But that was before everything changed.

))))))))

It began on a night where rain came down in sheets so thick it blurred the city lights. Lan was walking home from his part-time job at the dusty old bookstore that no one ever seemed to visit. The cold rain soaked through his hoodie, clinging to his skin, making each step heavier as he trudged through the near-deserted streets. He ducked into a narrow alley, hoping to shave off a few minutes from his walk. The air here was damp and close, the stench of wet concrete mingling with the sour tang of something rotting in the trash bins.

That’s when he saw it — a flash of gold flickering between the shadows. At first, he thought it was just a piece of foil, some discarded junk reflecting the faint glow of the streetlights. But as he drew closer, he realized it was more than that. It seemed to pulse, almost breathing with the rhythm of the rain. Something about it whispered to him, a sound so faint it could’ve been a trick of the wind.

Lan crouched down, his fingers trembling as he reached for it. The mask was surprisingly warm to the touch, almost like a living thing. The surface felt slick and cold under his fingertips, yet there was a strange warmth that seemed to pulse beneath, like the beat of a hidden heart. It wasn’t metal exactly, but something far smoother — almost like skin, yet too perfect to be flesh. It gave off a faint, metallic tang, like the air before a lightning strike, sharp and electric. The closer he held it to his face, the stronger the scent became, an acrid blend of old books and ashes.

There were no eyeholes, no mouth, just a smooth, expressionless face staring back at him, reflecting the dim light like a polished mirror. As he turned it over, he noticed a low hum, like the vibration of a distant engine, so faint it was almost imperceptible. It was as if the mask were alive, waiting, eager to be worn.

He hesitated, but something about it called to him, a deep, insistent pull that made his heart race. Before he could second-guess himself, he lifted it to his face. The instant the mask touched his skin, he felt a sudden, sharp coldness, like plunging into ice-cold water. His breath caught in his throat. The world around him fell away; the sound of the rain dulled to a distant, muffled roar. He could hear his heartbeat pounding in his ears, but beneath it, he heard something else — a whisper, like a voice carried on the wind, so soft he couldn’t make out the words.

The mask seemed to mold itself to his face, tightening around his skin with a gentle but relentless pressure. It was as if it had melted into him, fusing with his flesh. For a moment, he panicked, his fingers scrambling to pull it off, but then — just as suddenly — the sensation vanished. The air returned to normal, the rain drumming on the rooftops above, and the city sounds rushed back in. Everything looked the same, yet… different. Colors seemed sharper, edges more defined, as if someone had turned up the contrast on reality itself.

Lan stood there, gasping, his fingers trembling as he touched his face. The mask was gone, or at least, he could no longer feel it. But something had changed. The air smelled sharper, crisper; even the rain seemed to carry an edge, like it was cutting through the darkness. And as he walked home, he caught glimpses of himself in the dark, rain-streaked windows — and the face staring back wasn’t quite his own. It was smoother, more flawless, the eyes darker, almost glowing.

The mask had done something to him, something he couldn’t quite put into words. The whispers were gone now, but in the back of his mind, he could still feel them — like echoes fading in a long, dark hallway.

Lan didn’t sleep that night. Every time he closed his eyes, he felt the mask’s smooth surface pressing against his skin, the warmth of it pulsing, as if it were hungry.

))))))))

But there was a cost.

At first, it was subtle — a lingering headache, a sense of exhaustion that sleep couldn’t fix. But the more he wore the mask, the more it took from him. Without it, he felt hollow, like a puppet whose strings had been cut. Worse, he was starting to forget what his real face looked like. He avoided mirrors without the mask on, terrified of the stranger that stared back.

His newfound popularity soared. Lan was no longer the shadow lurking at the edge of the social circle. He was the circle. He went to parties, sat at the cool kids' table, and dated girls he used to only dream about. But each time he removed the mask at night, the emptiness gnawed deeper into him, like a black hole consuming all the light he had borrowed.

One night, at a party in a sprawling mansion owned by one of the rich kids, things took a turn. The air was thick with the scent of expensive cologne and alcohol. Music pulsed through the walls, shaking the floor beneath Lan's feet. Everyone was there — the whole school seemed to have crammed into the house.

Lan stood at the center of it all, basking in the attention. Someone handed him a red Solo cup, and he drank deeply, the bitter taste of cheap beer coating his tongue. He turned, ready to crack a joke, but stopped when he noticed a girl watching him from the corner. She was different from the others — her eyes were sharp, piercing, and didn’t hold the glazed look of adoration that everyone else’s did.

“Nice mask,” she said, her voice barely audible over the music.

Lan's blood ran cold. He forced a laugh. “What are you talking about?”

She stepped closer, the crowd seeming to part around her like she was some dark specter. “I can see it,” she whispered. “The mask you’re wearing. It’s eating you alive, isn’t it?”

Lan's hands went to his face instinctively, but he could feel only skin. The girl’s eyes were filled with something that was almost pity. “You’re not the first to wear it,” she continued, her voice like a knife slicing through the noise. “But you’re running out of time. Soon, there won’t be anything left of you.”

He tried to ignore her, tried to lose himself in the crowd again, but her words stayed with him. When he got home that night, he ripped the mask off, panting as if he’d run a marathon. For the first time, he looked in the mirror without it. The face staring back was gaunt, hollow-eyed. His skin was stretched tight over his cheekbones, and dark circles ringed his eyes. He barely recognized himself.

But the next morning, he found himself reaching for the mask again. He couldn’t go back to being invisible. He wouldn’t. Not after tasting what it was like to be someone.

))))))))

Over the next few weeks, the headaches turned into migraines. His skin, once glowing under the mask, grew pale and sickly when he wasn’t wearing it. The mask no longer just enhanced his confidence — it became his only source of strength. Without it, he could barely stay awake, barely muster the energy to get out of bed.

The girl who had confronted him showed up again, this time cornering him after school. “You need to take it off,” she urged, her voice urgent. “Before it’s too late.”

Lan shoved past her, but her words clawed at his mind. That night, he tried to sleep without the mask. He lay in bed, shaking, cold sweat pouring down his back. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. The darkness pressed in on him, and he felt like he was drowning. Desperate, he put the mask back on, and the relief was immediate — a flood of warmth and energy, the emptiness replaced by a rush of euphoria.

But when he looked in the mirror, his eyes were no longer his own. They were darker, almost black, and the reflection moved a half-second slower than he did. The mask was taking more than just his energy. It was taking him.

))))))))

The final party was at the end of the school year. Lan, now the king of the social scene, stood at the center of the dance floor, surrounded by people who cheered his name. But he could barely feel the ground beneath his feet. The mask was hungry; he could feel it gnawing at his soul.

The girl was there too, watching him. Her eyes were sad this time, no longer filled with scorn or judgment. “Please,” she whispered, “You have to take it off.”

Lan laughed, but it came out as a hollow rasp. “Why would I give this up?” he shouted over the music. “I’m finally somebody!”

But as he spoke, the mask tightened, constricting his face like a vice. The cheers around him turned into gasps. The crowd backed away as Lan fell to his knees, clawing at the mask. It wouldn’t budge. It was no longer something he wore — it was part of him.

The last thing Lan saw before the darkness swallowed him was the girl’s face, full of pity.

))))))))

When they found him the next morning, there was nothing left but the mask, lying in the center of the dance floor, gleaming in the early morning light. His classmates, the ones who had cheered his name, now whispered in hushed tones.

Someone new would pick it up eventually. They always did.