The knock at the door is polite, almost cheerful. They barely have time to react before it swings open, and he steps inside as if he owns the place.

“Nice home,” he muses, trailing a gloved hand along the furniture. “A shame you won’t be here to enjoy it.”

They stumble back, confusion shifting into panic as he pulls out a syringe, twirling it between his fingers.

“I need someone to borrow my face for a while. And lucky you, you’ve been chosen.”

A sharp sting, a fading gasp, and the world turns black.

The last thing they hear before unconsciousness takes them is his voice, casual, almost amused.

“Don’t worry—I’ll take very good care of your life.”