Sophia pressed the powder puff against her cheek, watching green skin disappear beneath a layer of pale dust. Her hand moved too fast, leaving streaks across her jaw. She cursed and tried again. Every morning was the same battle—hiding what she'd become since the carriage accident three months ago. The sharp rocks had killed her, but somehow she'd come back wrong. Now her skin had a green tint that powder could barely cover, and yesterday her left pinky finger had fallen off during breakfast. She'd learned to carry spare gloves. What she wanted more than anything was to master these cosmetics, to perfect the disguise until no one could tell she was dead. The powder from Madame Beaumont's shop worked, but it ran out fast. She needed more, and she couldn't afford another jar. That's when she remembered the old building two streets over—the one with peeling paint and cracked plaster walls. She'd walked past it last week and noticed chunks of white plaster crumbling onto the ground. She grabbed a small cloth bag from her drawer and hurried outside. The building stood empty, its walls showing gray dust beneath the broken white surface. Sophia glanced around, then scraped her fingernail along a crack. Pale powder fell into her palm. She worked quickly, collecting the fine ash into her bag. Her heart raced as she gathered enough to fill it halfway. Back home, she spread the powder on her vanity and mixed it with a drop of lavender water. The paste looked promising. She dabbed it on her wrist and watched it dry to a pale finish that matched her old skin tone almost perfectly. Not quite as good as Madame Beaumont's formula, but close enough. She could work with this. She could learn to make it better. This was how she'd master the art of hiding what she'd become—one experiment at a time. But testing powder on her wrist wasn't enough. She needed to see her full face in proper light, and her bedroom mirror was too small and dim. Sophia tucked the powder bag into her pocket and walked toward the town square. A fountain stood in the center, its twisted figures casting shadows across the dark water. The basin held still water that reflected like glass. She knelt beside it and leaned close, studying her face in the surface. The plaster powder looked uneven in daylight—too pale in some spots, too green in others. She pulled out her handkerchief and dabbed at the streaks, trying to blend them smooth. Her hands shook as she worked. This was her life now—stealing materials, mixing formulas, practicing in public fountains. But each attempt brought her closer to the answer. If she could perfect this disguise, she could go anywhere. She could attend the balls again, walk through crowds, live like she used to. The reflection staring back at her still looked wrong, but it looked more human than yesterday. That was progress. A woman walked past and stared at her kneeling by the fountain. Sophia's face went hot. She stood too quickly and dropped her handkerchief into the water. The woman kept walking. Sophia fished out the wet cloth and stuffed it in her pocket, her heart pounding. She needed help—real help. Someone who understood what she was trying to do. That's when she noticed a shop across the square with a painted sign showing a bright face and cheerful colors. The words read "Zombie Cosmetics Store" in curling letters. Her breath caught. A store for people like her. She crossed the square and pushed open the door. Inside, shelves held jars of powder in different shades, bottles of colored liquid, brushes of all sizes. A counter stood at the back with mirrors lined along the wall. This was where she could learn. This was where she could master every technique she needed. Sophia stepped forward, fingers already reaching for the nearest jar. Today was the day she started learning how to truly hide what she'd become.

Sophia picked up a jar labeled "Deadwax Foundation" and twisted off the lid. The cream inside was thick and smooth, nothing like the chalky plaster powder she'd been using. She dabbed some on the back of her hand and watched it spread evenly across her green skin. The coverage was better than anything she'd tried before. Her fingers trembled as she reached for another jar, then another, testing each formula on different patches of her arm. Some were too yellow, others too pink, but one shade matched perfectly. She held her arm up to the light and couldn't see any green showing through. This was what she needed to learn—how to choose the right products, how to layer them properly, how to make them last all day without streaking or fading. A door at the back of the shop stood open. Sophia walked toward it and peered inside. Tile walls lined a small room with three chair stations facing cracked mirrors. The mirrors sat in wooden frames with faded paint peeling at the edges. This looked like a salon—the kind where performers changed their faces before going on stage. She stepped inside and sat in one of the vintage chairs. The mirror showed her green-tinted reflection clearly. She opened the jar of foundation that had worked on her arm and began spreading it across her cheek. The cream glided on smooth and covered the green completely. She worked carefully, blending it into her jawline and up to her hairline. When she finished, half her face looked human again. Her chest felt tight as she stared at the difference. This was real progress. She just needed to practice more, to learn the right techniques, to study how much pressure to use and which direction to blend. Each time she practiced, she got closer to looking alive again. She finished the other half of her face and studied her reflection. The foundation looked perfect in the dim salon light. But what about outside? What about under chandeliers at the balls? She needed to test this. Sophia grabbed the foundation jar and hurried out of the salon, through the shop, and onto the street. A spotlight stood mounted on a wooden pole near the store entrance. The metal housing showed rust spots, but the light still worked. She positioned herself beneath it and tilted her face up. The bright beam showed every detail. Her makeup held—no green showing through, no streaks, no patches. She turned her head left and right, checking every angle. The foundation stayed smooth and natural-looking even under harsh light. Her hands shook as she touched her cheek. This was what she'd been searching for. The right products. The right techniques. The beginning of mastering her disguise. She could do this. She could learn to look alive again.

Sophia walked back into the Zombie Cosmetics Store, the foundation jar clutched in her hand. She needed to understand how these products worked together—not just one at a time, but layered like professionals did. The shelves held more than just foundation. She spotted small pots of rouge, tubes of lip color, and tiny brushes with soft bristles. She grabbed a pot labeled "Blush for the Deceased" and twisted it open. The pink powder inside looked too bright, but when she brushed some on her foundation-covered cheek, it brought warmth to her face that made her look less like a corpse. She studied her reflection in a hand mirror on the counter. With the right products in the right order, she could build a complete disguise. This store held everything she needed to practice, test, and perfect her technique. But she needed to see what the masters looked like. Not just their work—their names, their achievements, the proof that someone had done what she was trying to do. Sophia left the store and walked until she found a concrete wall along the street. Metal plaques covered its surface, each one listing a name and their work. She read the first: "Marina Delacroix—Perfected the Three-Layer Method." The next said "Thomas Webb—Created Formulas That Lasted Three Days Without Fading." Her fingers traced the words on another plaque: "Achieved Complete Transformation—No Detection Under Any Light." These people had mastered what she was learning. They'd turned disguise into an art. If they could do it, so could she. She needed supplies now—more than the store offered. Sophia walked toward the market area and found a stall with a corrugated metal roof. Wooden booths lined the inside, each one selling different goods. She moved from booth to booth, studying the vendors and watching how they presented themselves. One woman wore powder that looked perfect even in bright daylight. Another had lips colored so naturally that Sophia couldn't tell if it was makeup or not. She stopped at a booth selling handmade brushes and bought three in different sizes. At another, she found small glass jars perfect for mixing her own formulas. The people here gave her more lessons than any instruction book could. She watched how they moved, how they smiled, how they made eye contact without fear. That's what she needed to learn too—not just how to look alive, but how to act like she belonged. She tucked her purchases into her bag and headed back toward the store, ready to practice everything she'd learned today.