THE FACE DONOR

The wrong name

Weilin woke up to a headache splitting behind her eyes.

"Oohhhh shit... "She sat up too fast, and the room tilted sideways before settling.

Last night came back in pieces: four shots of whiskey, the club lights pulsing red and blue, the Uber ride home she barely remembered booking. She didn't remember walking into her apartment. She didn't remember falling asleep either.

The room looked like a crime scene. Clothes thrown across the floor, her shoes kicked off by the door, a glass knocked sideways on the nightstand, a thin ring of liquor staining the wood beneath it.

She needed food. The fridge had nothing; no soda, no noodles, no fruit, just a half-empty bottle of water sweating in the cold light.

"f**k. I have to go to the market."

She missed the city, where she could order anything with one tap and have it at her door in twenty minutes. Here, she has to walk for it, bus fare and all.

She showered fast, checked her and balanced enough for groceries, not much else and caught the bus to the market, her head still throbbing with every pothole in the road.

The market was loud before she even stepped off the bus: vendors calling out prices, the wet slap of fish being cleaned on plastic boards, the sharp tang of chilli oil and overripe fruit thick in the air. Weilin kept her sunglasses on despite the grey sky. Her head couldn't take the noise, let alone the light.

The first shop owner saw her and smiled like she'd been waiting all week.

"Meifang! How are you?" The woman wiped her hand on her apron, eyes bright. "I asked your husband about you two months ago. He said you were sick. How's your body now?"

Weilin froze, one hand still resting on a bag of rice. "Excuse me, who are you talking to?"

"You, of course," the woman laughed, but it faded fast when Weilin didn't laugh back. "Don't you remember, ma? I asked about your health. You look so much better now."

"Sorry. I am not Meifang, I am Weilin.

The smile slipped clean off the woman's face. "Aaaa. You are.."

"You've mistaken me for someone else," Weilin grabbed the rice and walked off before the woman could finish, her pulse climbing for reasons she couldn't name yet.

She moved deeper into the market, picking through vegetables, checking for anything fresh enough to cook tonight. Her hands steady, turning over a bunch of greens, testing a tomato for softness. Her heart wasn't nearly as calm.

Someone grabbed her arm, hard, suddenly, fingers digging into her sleeve.

"Meifang." A man, maybe thirty, his breathing ragged like he'd been holding something for days. "I've been calling you. Why aren't you picking up?"

"Who are you? I'm not Meifang," she tried to pull free. He didn't let go right away.

"What are you talking about? You called me the last two months about the file, the flash drive you wanted to give me." his voice cracked, somewhere between anger and panic. "My boss tore into me when I couldn't deliver it before the deadline. Do you understand what that cost me?"

"Excuse me?"

"The flash drive. The file. "He leaned closer and caught the smell of stale cigarettes on his jacket. "Stop playing games."

"I don't know what you're talking about," her voice climbed, sharp enough that a few heads turned nearby. "And stop calling me Meifang. My name is Weilin. Not Meifang."

He finally let go of her arm, but he didn't step back. He just stared, mouth slightly open, eyes searching her face for something that wasn't there anymore, like she'd reached into a conversation they'd actually had and erased it in front of him.

Weilin didn't wait to see what he'd say next. She pushed through the crowd, her bag of groceries banding against her hip, not looking back, not wanting to encounter another person again calling her a name that wasn't hers.

By the time she reached her apartment, her arm ached, and her headache had sharpened into something behind her left eye. She dropped the bags by the door and went straight to the bedroom, drawn to the glass door at the far wall the way she always was when she couldn't settle her thoughts.

Who did this face belong to?

Why won't the doctor tell me anything about the donor?

"I need to find out myself", she said, just to hear it in her own voice, steady even if nothing else in her felt that way.

Her phone buzzed on her bed.

Always watch your back. Do not trust anyone. You are a target. Stay safe.

She read it twice, her stomach dropping with each word. "What, by who?"

A knock at the door made her flinch hard enough to drop the phone on the mattress.

"Who is it?"

"Delivery, ma'am."

She hadn't ordered anything. Not today, not this week. Through the peephole, a courier in uniform, a small package tucked under one arm. She opened the door a crack, keeping her foot braced against it. "Are you sure this is the right address?"

He checked the slip in his hand. "Is this not your address?"

She looked again. It was hers, her name, her building, her floor.

"Sign here, please."

She signed without thinking, her hand unsteady. He left without another word. Locked the door, she tore back the tape slower than she meant to. Inside: a file, plain and unmarked.

Her name on the first page, typed clean. Another name beneath it, handwritten, the ink slightly smudged like it had been written in a hurry. She sat down slowly at the table, starring at the second namethat look blurred and doesn't mean anything.

"Who sent this?" she said.

**********************************************************************************************************

Outside three streets down, Jung watched her window go dark.

He followed her from the market. He'd sent the package himself, left it with a courier. He paid in cash and never saw her again.

"Meifang, I will avenge you, no matter what."

His phone rang. He picked up without looking at the screen.

"Jung, where are you?" Lufan's voice, clipped, urgent.

"Not in the city. I'll be back in a few days."

"I found something. You need to see it before it's too late."

"I'm on vacation, Lufan. I'm not coming back for this.

"Whatever you have to say, it can wait until I'm back."

"Wait..."

Jung ended the call.

His phone buzzed. A text from Lufan, sent right after the call he'd just hung up on.

" Her husband paid extra to rush the cremation. No autopsy. Said her face was too damaged for viewing. Something's wrong, Jung. Call me."

I knew something was wrong somewhere; I had to find out.