“Hold still, handsome. Don’t want to mess your face up more than it already is.”

The red-haired woman guided the needle with a flick of her fingers, thread gliding effortlessly through the air. A small gust of wind caressed Sergio’s face as the needle and thread slid through his skin with a soft, wet pull.

Sergio flinched, but not from the pain. The pain was nothing. It was the sight, the sensation, the knowledge that his face… would never look the same again.

Across from him stood a mirror. He had always taken time to glance at his reflection, if only to admire one thing he had cared for and curated. But now, what stared back wasn’t the gentle, trustworthy mask he’d worn for years.

It was something else.

Something mangled.

Stitched.

Red.

Disgusting.

The source of all that chaos? It was the right side of his face… carved open like rotten fruit and sewn shut with a thread far too thick.

Behind him, the woman hummed off-key. “I mean, from a certain angle, it still looks okay. Kind of.”

She tilted her head, needles floated above her fingers, spinning slightly like a compass. She continued to observe Sergio’s face, all the while her needles and thread moved in and out of it.

“Hmm, never mind. You’re horrifying from every side.”

Sergio said nothing. His lips were tight, the left corner twitching with the effort to stay still. The right side is unbelievably still. He clung to the last of his pride, still bleeding to this very second.

Then, after a moment, the woman’s needles moved behind itself to cut its own threads before returning to her side.

“Phew, I did my best,” she added, with a mockingly sincere tone. “Those kids cut you deep. You’ll have to get used to people screaming when they see you.”

A small part of Sergio trembled. If even she had done her best, then… was his face truly a lost cause?

Sergio traced a finger on the edges of his scar. No longer was there the expected smoothness, only sharp pain emanating from his skin and his heart. He finally spoke, his voice low and bitter. “Is there really… no way to restore me?”

The woman, the one called the Seamstress, shook her head. “Not a chance, from me, anyway. Your best chance would be getting a visit from someone with light magic. But that ‘Saint’ from Setus couldn’t even heal a back pain, I hear.”

“Dammit!!” He slammed a fist onto the steel bed. His rage echoed through the small operating room. “I’ll kill those kids! I’ll rip open their faces right in front of each other!”

The Seamstress didn’t flinch, nor did her smile falter.

“You sure you’re up for that?” she said, flicking a bloody cloth into the bin. “You got here soaked and sobbing, both with blood and… something else. Or are you into that sort of thing?”

Sergio’s head snapped toward her, his only eye strained on her. “Are you mocking me?!”

He raised his fist. But before he could—

—A dozen scalpels shot through the air, hovering just before his face, suspended only by wind.

One bead of sweat slid down his cheek.

The scalpels held still in the air, twinkling like silver fangs. None of them moved, but the warning was loud enough.

“Raising your hand to the one stitching your face?” The Seamstress didn’t raise her voice. Instead, it remained calmly mocking. “You really do want to walk out of here with both eyes shut, don’t you?”

Sergio froze. Slowly, he lowered his arm.

The scalpels didn’t budge.

“I’m not done with you yet,” she added, and with a flick of her fingers, the scalpels zipped back into a neat roll beside her tray.

Silence returned, thick in the air. Sergio sat still for a long moment, his jaw clenched, breath sharp through his nose.

Then, calmly, he talked.

“I’m not letting this go. Those kids…” he paused, exhaled hard. He raised a palm, looking at it with his only eye. “They humiliated me. They carved me up like nothing. I don’t care what the fallout is. I’ll make them pay.” His fist curled up into a tight ball.

Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

The Seamstress gave a long, slow blink. Then she scoffed.

“No, you won’t.”

Sergio’s head snapped toward her. “Excuse me?”

She turned her back to him, folding a bloodied towel, her head not even turned to him. “You think you’re still in a position to want things?”

“What are you—”

“To put it through that thick head of yours, here we go. You failed,” she said, finally looking at him, her face silent. “You went in to kidnap one candidate. Yet you came back empty-handed. Not to mention, scarred and soaked.”

She tossed the towel into a bin. “That means next time? Her family, and possibly Setus itself, will be ready. You won’t even get close before they slash the other half of your face apart.”

He sat silently, fists trembling. “No, I can still—”

“Secondly…” She raised two fingers. “You lost your face. That was your weapon, wasn’t it? The look. The charm. The lie. It’s gone now. You look like a cautionary tale, no one will buy your [Sweet Lies] with that look.”

Sergio was frozen to the core, but she wasn’t done.

“And third, possibly the worst of all.” She turned her back to him, raising three fingers. “You made a scene. A Right Palm member going loud in public, trading blows like a common thug? You know how long it’ll take to clean that up?”

Sergio couldn’t respond. Everything she had stated was facts, ones he couldn’t refute.

“I can’t believe we’re colleagues.” She tilted her head back, her eyes gleaming as they bore through Sergio’s. “Who’s to say you still have any worth here at all?”

The words hit harder than any blade. Sergio didn’t speak. His mouth hung half-open, but no sound came. Just the faint whistle of his breath.

Finally, the Seamstress walked up to him, her expression softening, her smile returning.

“Don’t worry, you’re not getting kicked out,” she said, almost gently. “Yet.”

Sergio’s shoulders lowered, barely.

“But Right Palm?” She reached out and brushed a single thread off his collar. “You’re gonna have to claw your way back in. I’ll be rooting for you~!”

His eyes widened. “W-What are you—”

“Yeah, you’re off the team. Didn’t you know?” She flashed a wide, innocent smile.

That smile pierced deeper than any of her needles.

The Seamstress turned her back to him, already gathering her tools. Her tone turned breezy, as if they were talking about the weather.

“By the way, don’t hope we’ll bring her in for you. We will be postponing the candidate recruitments for now. We’re moving ahead with that plan and we need all hands on deck.”

Sergio blinked. “What plan?”

“Oh… right.” She paused mid-motion, covering her mouth innocently. “I forgot you’re no longer a Right Palm. So, that’s classified.”

His fists tightened. It took all of his patience to contain all this mockery.

She didn’t look at him when she continued.

“Oh, right, we do need some frontliners for that! A good opportunity for you to climb the ranks, right?” She gave a soft chuckle. “You’d be perfect for the role~!”

He couldn’t respond. If he did, everything might boil over.

With her tools neatly packed, the Seamstress made her way to the door. She paused in the frame, hands in her coat pockets.

“Oh, and Sergio?” she said without turning around. “Try not to die before you’re useful again.”

The door clicked shut behind her.

Silence filled the room.

Sergio sat there, alone, staring into the reflection that barely resembled the man he once adored. The dim light caught the edge of his scar, the messy, swollen seam where his right eye had once been.

His left eye narrowed, burning.

“…Carine. Feyt.”

He gripped the edge of the steel bed. It bent under his trembling force.

“I hope we’ll meet again. Someday.”

With a shove, he pushed himself off the steel blade, slamming the door open before disappearing into the dim, underground halls.

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep