A month later, I saw Freya again—but not in the tattoo parlor. This time, it was on the street.
Stein and I had just returned from buying fruit when someone emerged from the shadows of the night. It was Freya.
She had grown even more beautiful—stunningly so, her face now flawless to the point where any man who saw her would inevitably be captivated.
But this wasn't Freya anymore. She seemed like a completely different person. When she smiled at me, it was eerily familiar.
Then it hit me—that face, that smile… wasn't it the same as the one on the female ghost's hand in the Painted Skin tattoo?
The realization sent a chill down my spine. I called out to her, but she didn't react—as if "Freya" wasn't her name anymore.
She wore a backless halter dress, and as she turned to leave, I caught a glimpse of the tattoo on her back—the Painted Skin design I'd inked into her skin.
Stein suggested I might be mistaken, but that tattoo confirmed it. No matter how much her face had changed, I'd recognize that body anywhere.
But when I looked closer at the tattoo, my blood ran cold.
The design had fused completely with her skin, weaving into her flesh like veins. And the ghost's face in the tattoo—the one holding the skin—had been replaced with Freya's original, ugly visage.
Had Freya really…?
Stein and I stood frozen, staring at her back, unsure what to do.
Was this still Freya? Or had the ghost from the tattoo taken over?
Just then, Freya turned back and said, "Thank you. Without you, I wouldn't have escaped. Oh, and my name is Lin Xiaowei now."
Lin Xiaowei.
The name of the ghost from the Painted Skin legend.
Had she really replaced Freya?
With that, she walked away—and in that moment, I heard a faint cry for help. It seemed to come from the flayed skin in the tattoo.
"Help me… please…"
The voice grew weaker, fading entirely as Freya vanished into the night.
By the time we snapped out of it and gave chase, she was long gone. We searched the entire street but found no trace of her.
I never saw Freya again. No news, no rumors—nothing.
Was this one of Freya's tricks, meant to mess with me?
Or had her body truly been stolen by the ghost in the tattoo?
The Painted Skin Yin-inspired Tattoo is indeed incredibly sinister. I only tattooed it this one time—years later, countless women came begging for this design, but I refused them all.
We all love beauty, but when taken to extremes, we become consumed by greed. The same goes for the pursuit of beauty!
Back to the present—right after Freya left, another person arrived.
This man owned an internet cafe and told us to call him Orwell.
He'd heard about Tattoos of Gods and Ghosts from an online group. During this time, Stein had done an excellent job promoting our services—posting in forums, chat groups, social media, and major online marketplaces. He'd also been reconnecting with past clients, and business had gradually picked up since he joined.
Orwell walked in and asked, "Can tattoos really exorcise evil spirits?"
He was a layman—didn't understand these things. Before, he'd only known about Daoist priests and monks, but the problem he faced was something neither could solve. With no other options, he'd come to us as a last resort.
I reassured him: My Tattoos of Gods and Ghosts are top-tier for exorcisms—100% genuine and effective.
When it comes to warding off evil, Yang-themed tattoos are extremely potent and never fail. I had full confidence in them.
I told Orwell to explain his situation so I could "prescribe the right tattoo" for him.
What he described next was so horrifying it could give anyone nightmares.
Orwell's Story
His internet cafe usually had good business—plenty of customers, no issues. But a month ago, an old woman started selling snacks there.
Now, the cafe's front desk already sold snacks, cigarettes, drinks, and sundries. For her to "set up shop" there was basically stealing business.
The staff immediately chased her away, but this old woman was strange. She'd often linger like a ghost between the computers late at night. The moment staff noticed her, she'd vanish. If they weren't paying attention, she'd reappear.
Eventually, they gave up. She was just a frail old woman—what could they do? If they pushed her and she fell, the medical bills would bankrupt them. Reporting her to the police seemed excessive, so the staff just turned a blind eye.
At first, it wasn't a big deal. But recently, something bizarre happened:
A regular customer—a heavyset guy—suddenly started losing weight.
The so-called weight loss wasn't normal weight loss. This man, who weighed about two hundred pounds, had in just one month become as thin as a monkey - barely eighty pounds, with bones clearly visible. His face turned pale with a greenish tint, his lips white, looking extremely unhealthy.
Orwell found this fascinating - how could a two-hundred-pound man lose so much weight in just one month? Skeptical, he decided to check the surveillance footage.
The footage confirmed what the staff had said - the man had indeed undergone a dramatic transformation.
At first, the man was clearly poor. He frequented the internet cafe, often staying overnight, yet never bought even a bottle of water or instant noodles. Judging by his cheap cigarettes and worn-out clothes, he was clearly struggling financially.
But later, he seemed to come into money. He started wearing brand-name clothes, smoking premium Chinese cigarettes, freely ordering food at the cafe, and sometimes even bringing girls along. What they did after midnight - Orwell could certainly guess.
Most noticeably, he began losing weight rapidly. Within a month, he became extremely thin, yet kept coming to the cafe.
Finding this strange, Orwell carefully reviewed all surveillance footage of the man.
Eventually, he discovered something crucial - the man frequently interacted with that old woman selling snacks.
Every night at exactly 3 AM, the old woman would appear beside him. The man never bought anything from her, but they would talk animatedly. Later, the man grew increasingly impatient, sometimes even throwing tantrums. Though their words couldn't be heard, his expressions and gestures clearly showed his worsening mood as he grew thinner.
On the last day captured by surveillance, the man was already skeletal. When he saw the old woman, he immediately knelt down, seemingly begging for something. The old woman ignored him and kicked him to the ground.
After watching the footage, Orwell was baffled. Just then, the man returned - though he could no longer be called fat. He was thin as a bamboo pole, every bone protruding, with absolutely no flesh left - worse than skin and bones.
The man found a computer and sat down, but didn't go online. He kept looking around, clearly waiting for someone. Orwell knew who he was waiting for - but the old woman never came.
At 7 AM, Orwell suddenly heard a painful wail. Rushing over, he found the man collapsed on the floor. Orwell immediately sent him to the hospital, but... the man was dead.