𝐁𝐞𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐈 𝐃𝐢𝐬𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐞𝐚𝐫 | 𝐒. 𝐆𝐨𝐣𝐨 ✔️

Chapter XXVII

My fingertips... they're fading.

The tips of them are completely see-through, as if my body is dissolving into nothing. As if I'm slipping away, piece by piece.

A sick, twisting feeling coils in my gut. Again.

My heartbeat pounds too fast, my breath coming in short, uneven bursts. This isn't real. It can't be real.

I must be dreaming. I have to be dreaming.

Without thinking, I lift my other hand and slap myself—hard.

A sharp sting shoots through my skin, the impact ringing in my ears. It burns. My cheek throbs, heat blooming beneath the surface. My eyes sting from the shock of it.

But I don't wake up.

The world doesn't flicker. Nothing shifts. The cold air biting at my skin is real. The hammering of my heart is real.

And my fingertips are still disappearing.

"Shit."

A voice breaks through the haze.

"Did I just see you slap yourself?"

I jolt, my head snapping toward the sound. A man steps into view, moving past me with an easy, unbothered gait. He reaches his desk, plucking a deck of cards off the surface with one hand while the other grabs a small coffee mug. Without looking at me, he pours himself a drink, steam curling into the air.

I stare at him.

I came here for a reason. To find him—the one who gave us that stupid riddle. The one who, more than likely, is the reason this whole body switch happened in the first place.

He finally looks up, eyeing me with something close to amusement. "Okay, I still have a feeling you hate me," he muses.

Then, as if that thought is nothing more than a passing joke, he slides the mug toward me. The steam rises in the space between us, a thin, curling veil of warmth.

"Drink it."

"Help me," I say simply, looking up at him. My voice is steadier than I expected, but my hands are trembling.

He doesn't react right away. Just watches me, his fingers idly shuffling the deck of cards. Then, with a slow, knowing smirk, he says, "It's going to cost."

I blink. "Are you serious? I might be losing my life—"

"Just drink that." He nods toward the mug in front of me. "I'll do you a simple reading first. Then we'll get into the expensive stuff."

A slow dread creeps into my chest, but I don't move. I just stare down at the steam curling from the coffee mug, watching as it rises, twisting like smoke, vanishing into the air.

"You've got a bad temper," he remarks, shuffling his cards with practiced ease. "Last time I saw you, you'd adapted quite well to the new body." His tone is smug, amused—like he's enjoying this.

My body trembles with anger. "I'm slowly disappearing, and you're sitting there acting all smug?"

His smirk falters. His expression shifts, turning serious. "Show me your hand."

I hesitate.

I don't trust him, but I need help.

Slowly, I lift my hand, fingers shaking slightly as I stretch them toward him.

His brows furrow as he examines it. His gaze sharpens, analyzing every detail. It's as if a thin, transparent layer is wrapped around my skin, barely visible, like I'm trapped in some kind of slow, unraveling illusion.