The room was cold—silent and metallic, with a sharp smell in the air, like a hospital that hadn't seen a patient in years. Machines buzzed quietly, hidden in the walls, almost like they were watching her.
Suddenly, a bright spotlight turned on above her, shining straight into her eyes.
She moved, confused and scared.
She was one of India's most famous actresses—known for her beauty, her confidence, and her charm—but now she sat frozen in a steel chair, her face covered by a heavy iron mask that made it hard to breathe. Only her wide eyes could be seen, filled with fear, and her lips trembled behind the cold metal. She tried to scream, but the sound was too soft, too broken to mean anything.
What is this place? Where am I?This is a prank. It has to be.
Her head was locked in place, and her body was strapped down tight. Everything around her felt blurry, like she was stuck in a nightmare she couldn't wake up from.
Then, in front of her, a large screen flickered to life.
Old videos began to play—videos of her, laughing brightly on talk shows, smiling at cameras, waving at fans.
She looked perfect in those clips. Strong. Confident. Untouchable.
In one, she was bragging about her "natural beauty," saying how she had never needed surgery, and how fake people looked when they tried to fix their faces. In another, she rolled her eyes at a co-star who had spoken about body image issues. She had always seemed proud of being the "real one" in a world full of masks.
They took those out of context...I was just being honest. The industry eats you alive if you're not strong.
But now, those same words echoed in the room like they were haunting her, bouncing off the metal walls like curses spoken too loud.
Then, suddenly, a new face appeared on the screen.
It was him—The Smile Man.
He wore a strange, stretched-out mask with a huge grin carved into it, and behind that frozen smile, you could feel the danger in his voice.
"Smile if you're guilty… And die if you're a murderer.""You worshipped beauty. You laughed at the broken. Now offer your beauty to the gods.""Cut off two fingers. You have two minutes. Do it as a gift. Let's begin the show, my beautiful liar."
Right then, a drawer opened in front of her with a loud metallic clang.
Inside, there was a rusted knife sitting on a plate covered in dry blood.
She shook her head, crying, begging for someone to help—but there was no one else.
Suddenly, the mask on her face started to get hotter.
She heard a hissing noise from behind her head, and red lights started glowing.
The heat grew stronger and stronger until it felt like her skin was boiling.
She screamed, but her voice disappeared inside the mask. Her tears started falling, but they vanished into steam before they could even reach her chin.
This isn't real. This can't be real.He's bluffing. This is a show. A twisted prank. Right?
The smell of burning metal mixed with her skin. Panic devoured her. Her breath came in ragged gasps, each one sharper than the last. Then—her trembling hand moved on its own, almost disconnected from her body, as if her mind split from her flesh.
She reached for the knife.
It was cold. Heavier than she expected. It stuck to her hand like it wanted her to use it.
No. No. I can't do this. I can't...
Her vision blurred as a loud ringing filled her ears. The room began to spin. Her heart was pounding so loud it was like a war drum in her skull.
Maybe if I just wait… Maybe he'll stop… Maybe—
Then the mask grew hotter again—scorching. Her skin sizzled. The smell of her own burning flesh filled her nose. The pain was beyond anything she had ever known—more than any heartbreak, more than any humiliation. It was raw, wild terror.
He's going to cook my face off. I'll die. I'll die without anyone even knowing I'm here.
Her hand gripped the blade.
Just do it. It's just skin. Just bone. Just… you.
She placed it on her index finger.
The cold metal bit into her skin—then slid deeper.
OH GOD.
The pain was like an explosion.
She screamed—a primal, animal scream—but the mask silenced it. Her body convulsed. Blood spurted, dark and hot.
Stop stop stop—
But she didn't.
Her hand moved again. The second finger.
The blade slid.
She wailed into the mask, her body shuddering, every nerve screaming.
Her vision blacked out for a second.
Blood poured onto the cold metal floor, splashing like red raindrops.
Her mutilated hand trembled, useless, broken.
And then… silence.
The Smiling Man's voice returned, softer now, almost pleased.
"Bravo… my star bleeds beautifully. Are you ready for Act Two?"
The Smiling Man leaned close, whispering into her ear.
"They're going to help you… express your inner truth."
He snapped his fingers once.
Two figures appeared instantly as if conjured by the sound. They grabbed her weak body and dragged her down a narrow hallway. She could barely walk, and the metal cuffs around her wrists cut into her skin.
The lights in the hallway were dim, and everything was bathed in an orange glow. The air smelled thick—like oil, sweat, and death all mixed together.
They stopped in front of a room.
They chained her arms above her head, locking them to an old, rusty pipe.
In front of her, separated by a glass wall, she saw two men sitting in chairs.
The producer. The director.
Both were tied up, unable to move. The producer was awake and shaking, his eyes wide with fear. The director seemed unconscious. Above them, large tanks filled with greenish acid were hanging, slowly dripping drops onto the metal.
Every drip made a soft hissing sound that sent chills down her spine.
Then the screen turned on again.
The Smiling Man's face appeared once more.
"Beauty fades," he said quietly, his voice almost gentle. "But betrayal? Betrayal leaves a stain that never washes away."
A new video began playing.
This time, it showed a behind-the-scenes moment from a film set. She was yelling at the crew, walking off in anger after not getting her way. The director had laughed at her behind her back—and just days later, he was fired. Everyone knew she had the power to ruin careers, and she used it.
"You rose fast," said the Smiling Man, his voice turning sharp again. "But your rise was built on broken people. You called it ambition. I call it blood."
In front of her, a metal box opened.
Inside were three buttons.
Two had names—one for the producer, one for the director.
The third button was locked in a glass container filled with some kind of bubbling liquid.
"You can save one of them," the Smiling Man said. "Or you can try to save both—but you'll need to break the glass with your injured hand. And you only have three minutes."
She cried, looking at the two men.
The producer. He always said he supported me. But he also turned a blind eye.The director humiliated me.Why am I the one who has to choose? Where were they when I needed help?
Suddenly—drip! A drop of acid fell onto the producer's cheek.
He screamed in pain, his skin turning red and bubbling.
The director was still unconscious, but acid was creeping down toward his fingers.
She panicked. Her fingers throbbed. Her vision blurred.
No time. I have to choose. Someone has to pay.
She reached out with her good hand and pressed the producer's button.
There was a click.
And then—
CRASH!
The entire tank of acid above the producer dumped out.
He screamed so loudly it echoed in her chest—and then it stopped.
He was gone.
She fell to her knees.
Then, she heard footsteps again.
The Smiling Man was no longer on the screen.
He was standing in front of her, tall and silent.
He held up a small mirror and placed it in front of her face.
She looked.
What she saw wasn't her. It was a monster. Her face was burnt, bloody, and scarred. She looked like a stranger.
No. That's not me.I'm the girl from the magazine covers.I'm the one they called a goddess.I'm… I'm still her. Right?
She screamed, louder than ever before.
The Smiling Man leaned in, his voice soft like a whisper in the dark.
"Look what you've done, beautiful," he said. "Your fans wanted a show. Your critics wanted the truth."
"And I… I want the final act."
He paused.
Then smiled.
"Smile," he whispered. "It's showtime."