“What’s the catch?” he whispered.

On the coffee table lay the actual mask from the album cover—not a picture, but the real thing. Cold porcelain. No eye holes. Just two blank, sloping indentations where a soul should look out.

He picked it up. It was heavier than it looked. As he raised it to his face, the porcelain grew warm—almost feverish. He hesitated.

In a sprawling, rain-slicked city, there was a man named Leo. By day, he was a senior graphic designer at a soulless marketing firm. By night, he was a ghost. Leo had perfected the art of the "Faceless" life: he wore the agreeable expression his boss wanted, the patient smile his partner expected, and the blank interest his friends settled for. Inside, he felt like the mask on that album cover—hollow, painted, and staring into a void no one else could see.