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.

No new bodies. No new notes. No messages.Just one city holding its breath, unsure if the nightmare had ended or was merely sharpening its teeth.


Mara didn't sleep. Couldn't. Every corner of her apartment whispered. Every mirror threatened to reflect a face she hadn't seen in years. She had lived with ghosts before, but now they were naming themselves.


She was halfway through the Institution #8 patient log when her phone buzzed.Private call.No ID.


Nothing but static.Then a soft voice—male. Calm. Measured. Familiar.


"She screamed for two hours before someone bothered to check her room. Do you remember her, Mara?"


"Room seventeen. The girl with the plastic bracelets."


Mara stood frozen in her kitchen, eyes locked on nothing.Seventeen.


She remembered that number.She just didn't want to.


A body had been found inside the derelict remains of Institution #8.A place that had supposedly been sealed since 2012.


Mara drove fast. She didn't call backup.


The girl's body was positioned in a wheelchair, eyes open, smile carved wide, the throat tied off with plastic hospital bracelets like garlands. Her chest was painted in red ink:


Next to the body sat a rusted tape recorder.


A child's voice whispered through the crackle:


"It's cold again… I told the nurse I was scared but she didn't come…"


"The boy in the hall was watching me. The quiet one."


"I don't think it meant what they said smiles mean…"


Mara staggered back, hand to her mouth. The voice was real. Not fake. Not edited.She remembered that voice.


The girl—her name was Camille—used to sit outside therapy, peeling the skin off her thumbs. They called her "The Wound." No one visited her. She rarely spoke.


And Mara had ignored her.Like everyone else.


The records said she was "transferred." But Mara remembered the screaming—long, drawn out, muffled by a pillow.She remembered walking faster when she passed Room Seventeen.Because Camille wasn't just screaming…She was begging someone to stay.


He had found Camille. Or what was left of her.And brought her back.Not as a girl.But as a reminder.


Elsewhere, the Smile Architect added a new photo to his wall.


Camille's body.The way the bracelets shimmered under flashlight.The smile carved exactly like the others.


He stepped back, admiring the growing gallery.


But the final one wasn't just another victim.She was the reason the others mattered.She was the voice that never screamed.


He whispered her name like a prayer.And picked up his scalpel.


Chapter 4 - THE GIRL WHO SCREAMED.