He Wants to Change My Face

My name is Claire Sinclair, and I run a modestly popular beauty salon in the city center. Customers who come to my shop always say my skills are excellent—that I can make skin as smooth as a peeled egg. No one knows I've been hiding a secret for ten years—I am the last preservation beautician of the Sinclair Family. Before she passed, my grandmother entrusted me with the family secret technique, repeatedly warning me never to reveal it to outsiders. This secret technique isn't just about skin treatment; it can lock a person's appearance after twenty-five, even allow them to swap faces. The medicine for face swapping requires hundreds of herbs and must be paired with special incantations—each preparation drains a great deal of my energy. I never thought about using this secret art to make money until three years ago, when my mother was diagnosed with a serious illness and needed a large sum for surgery. With a tentative mindset, I posted a vague message on an encrypted forum, saying I could provide special beauty services. For six months after posting, no one showed any interest. I thought the matter was done and dusted. Until last Wednesday night, just after I closed the beauty salon, I suddenly received a message from an unknown number. The sender's note read "Local demand", and they immediately asked if I could do face swapping services. My heart tightened, and my fingers hovered over the screen for a long moment before I finally replied to ask about their specific request. He said he wanted to swap his wife's face and even sent a photo. The woman in the picture had gentle eyes and brows, and when she smiled, two faint dimples appeared. Just as I was about to ask for more details, he sent another message: "The name of the person whose face is being swapped is Claire Sinclair, born 15th March, 1992." When I read that line, the phone nearly slipped from my hand. Isn't that my name and birthday? I stared at the screen for a full three minutes, my heart pounding as if it might burst from my chest. Carefully, I asked if he'd made a mistake—how could it be such a coincidence? He replied quickly, saying it was just a coincidence—that his wife had the same name and the same birthday. I still felt uneasy, but with my mother waiting at the hospital and needing money, I gritted my teeth and agreed to the order. We agreed that he would pay half the deposit upfront, and after the medicine was prepared and shipped, he would pay the balance upon delivery. He was prompt—transferring the deposit the same day. The amount equaled what I usually earned doing beauty treatments in six months. For the next few days, I closed the beauty salon and stayed home, preparing the medicine. The scent of various herbs filled the room—bitter, with an eerie, unsettling fragrance. The process of dispensing the medicine went smoothly; when it was time to ship, I sent out the packaged medicine boxes. A week later, my husband Kane Chandler suddenly came out of the kitchen carrying a bowl of chicken soup. "Claire, what have you been busy with these past few days? Your complexion looks so pale. I made some chicken soup to help you recover." He set the chicken soup in front of me, his eyes filled with a kind of attentiveness I had never seen before. I picked up the spoon, about to take a sip, when suddenly a familiar scent drifted up from the soup. It was exactly the same scent as the Forget-Worry Grass I used when dispensing the medicine. Forget-Worry Grass on its own doesn't have a distinctive scent, but mixed into Chicken Soup, it gives off a subtle almond aroma. The spoon in my hand froze mid-air as I looked up at Kane Chandler.