Chapter 1

While I was being tortured by those monsters, my brother was busy shopping for clothes with my stand-in.

I called him, hoping to hear his voice one last time.

Instead, he told me, “If you want to die, just hurry up and do it. Stop bothering me.”

A few days later, he sat in his office as the department’s genius forensic sketch artist, tasked with reconstructing the face of a headless corpse.

He tore through dozens of sheets of paper, but in the end, the face he drew was mine.

And for the first time in his life, my brother panicked.

The police arrived quickly after the report came in, cordoning off the scene while curious onlookers gathered.

From the distance, I saw my brother, Jason Locke, finally show up, casually late as always.

I’d always been proud of him.

He was the youngest and most talented forensic sketch artist in the department.

With just a few vague details from a witness or a blurry surveillance image, he could bring a suspect’s face to life.

Thanks to his sketches, countless cases had been solved, and suspects apprehended.

Even victims who had been mutilated beyond recognition—Jason could draw them, too.

But today, could he draw me?

I doubted it.

After all, they’d torn me apart.

When they hacked off my arms and legs, I was still breathing.

Even now, thinking back to that excruciating pain makes my body tremble.

The forensic team carefully photographed my dismembered remains, placing each piece into evidence bags.

Most of my body had been recovered—except for my head.

The coroner’s preliminary report read, “The victim appears to be a male, approximately 17 years old, based on bone structure. Severe bruising, countless stab wounds, and multiple compound fractures indicate prolonged torture before death. The motive seems to be revenge.”

Jason took one look at the remains, turned pale, and ran to the side to vomit.

It turns out, even in death, he still found me disgusting.

The investigation hit a dead end until a foam box suddenly fell from a nearby rooftop.

Inside were the severed eyes, nose, mouth, and ears of a human.

The police launched a manhunt, but the perpetrator wasn’t caught.

The conclusion was clear: the killer was taunting them, brazenly watching from nearby.

Back at the station, Jason got to work.

With no leads on the suspect, he started with “me.”

As always, he bowed slightly to the remains before beginning—a ritual of respect he performed before sketching any victim.

“Such a young age… what a tragedy.”

“Your family must be heartbroken.”

My heart ached at his words.

Really? Would you be heartbroken, Jason? Or would you finally feel free, knowing I’m gone?

He put on his gloves with practiced precision, carefully arranging the severed eyes, nose, mouth, and ears in front of him.

His movements were professional, even gentle.

Once, I had longed for him to show me even a fraction of that tenderness—maybe a hug, a pat on the head.

But that had always been a hopeless dream.

He had never even smiled at me.

Suddenly, his hands froze mid-motion.

His fingers trembled as he flipped over the left ear.

There was a large scar behind it, a burn mark I’d had since childhood.

His knuckles turned white as he pressed his thumb against the ear, brushing away some dust.

But the scar wasn’t there.

He exhaled slowly, almost in relief, muttering to himself, “It couldn’t be him. He’s too stubborn to die.”

But Jason, you’re wrong.

I was stubborn, but even I couldn’t survive this.

The scar wasn’t there because they had carved it off my skin.

Every scar, every birthmark—they had stripped them all away.

Jason’s skill was unmatched.

It didn’t take long for him to sketch my face perfectly.

But instead of relief, he looked disturbed.

He stared at the drawing for a long moment before tearing it to shreds.

Then, he picked up his pencil and started again.

His eyelashes quivered as sweat beaded on his forehead.

His grip on the pencil was so tight, his fingertips turned pale.

By the time our uncle walked into the room, Jason had already crumpled a dozen failed sketches.

Curious, our uncle picked one up and frowned.

“Why are you drawing Alex?”

Jason didn’t look up, his voice strained.

“I don’t know. Every time I try to draw, his face just keeps coming to mind.”

“Creepy,” our uncle muttered before tossing the sketch aside.

Jason’s face darkened.

Once again, I had made him unhappy.

But don’t worry, Jason.

From now on, I’ll never upset you again.