The grin did not fade. It stayed fixed, a jagged, impossible tear across a face that was now a distorted mirror of Li Qiang's own. The eyes were too wide, the pupils slightly mismatched in size, and the corners of the mouth were pulled back so far that the skin seemed to be humming with the tension of a breaking string.
For three seconds, the hall was a vacuum. No one breathed. The only sound was the distant, rhythmic drip of something wet hitting the floorboards.
Then suddenly it moved.
There was no warning. No shift in posture, no telegraphed tension. One moment, the mourner stood frozen, Li Qiang's handprint still invisible on its sleeve, its face wearing that stretched, impossible grin.
The next moment, it was on him.
