This scene would frighten anyone who sees it.

Fang Sen was not surprised, but he seemed overly scared.

"It's not really my fault."

"I'm sorry... I'm sorry!"

He hurriedly held the painting in his hands and presented it to me as if offering a treasure, "I painted this for you, is it good?"

Getting closer, I saw clearly the woman in the painting, not faceless, but lacking eyes, mouth, and nose.

The outline of this face was so similar to this head.

In the painting, I stood behind the table, bowing my head unable to see the face.

What is going on here?

Why has Fang Sen never mentioned painting to me, and why is he apologizing non-stop?

I urgently wanted to speak, but this head had no vocal cords. Fang Sen understood my meaning, he broke down, "Don't blame me!"

"I..."

He crawled two steps towards me, "Can I still kiss you like before? Xiaomian, I love you."

After saying that, he leaned in again, I closed my eyes in disgust, and heard a scream.

A long, slimy tongue emerged from the head's mouth, slid into Fang Sen's eyes, using his eyes as an entry point, entwining and mixing bit by bit.

At that moment, I felt a wave of sadness.

Soon, this inexplicable emotion was replaced by disgust.

Because I heard the sticky sliding sound in Fang Sen's brain.

His seven orifices bled, his body stiffened, tears of a physiological nature flowed from his eye sockets, originally a mixture of blood and white liquid.

Fang Sen died in front of me in this way.

I fully understood the horror of this head, but I still didn't understand why it had to use my eyes?

The head moved towards Fang Sen's body, nibbling slowly along his fingers, wherever it ate, it would grow on the head.

And so, "I" gained arms.

In Fang Sen's bedroom, there was a full-length mirror. With arms now, the head moved more conveniently, it came to the mirror to admire its own appearance.

A head, two hands, a strange combination.

Those were the hands that should have belonged to Fang Sen, skilled in drawing. So the head took out a drawing board, using Fang Sen's arms, sketched an outline on the board.

Long hair, oval face, slender arms.

At the signature, a single word, "Mian."

Today's weather was bad, no sunset glow, constant car honking outside the window, neighbors in the hallway walking their dogs downstairs, everything was so real, even beautiful.

But in the corner of my eye, Fang Sen's body lay quietly on the carpet, bloodstains on his face, his arms like two red pancakes, silently oozing blood and oil.

The pungent smell and the horrifying scene all told me that beauty is just an illusion.