No one heard the girl scream.
Not because the walls were thick — they weren’t.
But because the city doesn’t listen anymore.

Her body was found seated upright in her apartment, hands folded like she was praying, her face sliced into a perfect grin. Red thread stitched the corners of her mouth to her cheeks. A single note pinned to her chest:

“Smile. Society’s watching.”

Detective Mara Vex stared down at the corpse without blinking. She was used to blood. Used to faces that looked surprised when life ended too early. But this one — this was different.

This was staged. Precise.
This was message, not murder.

It was the third body in three weeks.

No fingerprints. No DNA. No forced entry.
Just a woman who worked in child protective services, now permanently smiling in death — and a public that had no idea they were being watched, played, judged.

The media named him The Smile Architect.

He didn’t just kill. He performed.
And Mara knew — performances always had an audience.

What the cameras didn’t show was what was inside the girl’s mouth: a photograph, rolled and tied with hair. Mara unwrapped it carefully.

It was a group photo.
A teenage boy among a sea of adults in white coats.
The back read: “Institution #8 – Summer Program – 2011.”

She felt something twist in her gut.
She’d heard of that place.
And she’d spent three months there when she was seventeen — after the incident.

But that program was shut down.
Sealed records. Buried lawsuits.
No one was supposed to remember it.
So why was he sending her this?

Across the city, in a room hidden from eyes and judgment, he watched the news.

There she was — Mara Vex.
All grown up. Cold eyes. Sharp suit.
The perfect product of a broken system.

He smiled to himself, soft and slow. Not like the corpses — those were mockeries. His smile was real. Warm. Earned.
Because he knew her. Knew what they’d done to her. Knew what they’d done to him.
They buried him alive in a place meant to heal. They fed him pills until he forgot his name, his dreams, his pain.
Then, when he started screaming, they punished him for not smiling.

So now he smiles.
He makes them all smile.
The way they made him.

Mara would remember.
She just didn’t know it yet.

And somewhere, the next victim was already smiling — still alive, but not for long.
Because this was only the beginning.
The real art hadn’t even started.

And by the end, they would all be laughing.
Blood in their teeth.
Stitches in their skin.
And terror in their eyes.

Because he wasn’t the monster.

They were.

And monsters don’t get justice.
They get architecture.

There were no clocks in the common room.Time didn't pass here. It dripped — a slow, sterile leak into padded corners and locked drawers.


Mara Vex, seventeen, sat in the far corner with a pen she wasn't allowed to have.She wasn't talking today. She had talked yesterday. That was enough.


A boy her age.Black hoodie too small. Skin pale, wrists bandaged, and eyes that never blinked fast enough.He didn't pace. Didn't scream. Didn't bang his head like the others.He just watched.


They called him Patient Fifteen.But he called himself nothing.


Dr. Orn clapped once. Bright, fake smile.


"Group therapy, everyone! Smiles first. Then stories."


Mara didn't smile. But she drew one on her palm.A circle. Two dots. A wide curve.


The boy saw it. And for the first time in days, he moved.


He stood. Walked across the room. Sat beside her.Close enough that their knees nearly touched.He didn't speak. He opened his notebook.


Mara didn't respond.But her fingers curled into fists.


That night, Camille screamed from Room Seventeen.


They all heard her.But no one moved.Staff ignored it. They were told she was "adjusting."


Mara lay in bed, teeth clenched, eyes wide.She wanted it to stop. Not because she cared. But because the noise made her remember things she couldn't afford to feel again.


The boy knocked once on the wall between them.Room Fifteen.He was right there.


But he didn't scream back.He hummed.A single, calm, eerie tune—over Camille's sobbing.


The next morning, Camille was gone.No explanation. No goodbyes.Just a nurse peeling the name tag off the door.


But Mara saw the blood under Camille's fingernails.


And the boy? He had drawn a new face in his notebook.


A smile — wide, broken, stitched at the corners.Below it: "This is what healing looks like."


One week later, Mara was released.They said she was stable.They said she had shown "progress."


Before she left, she passed the boy in the hallway. He didn't look up.


So she stopped. Hesitated. Then whispered:


Mara left without replying.Without turning back.


But he never forgot her.Because she knew.She had heard the scream.


He closed the notebook now, older hands rougher, more precise.


The same page still held that smile.The one Camille died under.The one Mara chose to wear.


He ran a gloved finger across it, then whispered:


"You were the first witness, Mara.And you smiled.That's when I knew…"


Chapter 8 - ROOM SEVENTEEN.