The silence of the studio was suffocating, broken only by the faint hum of the overhead lights. My hands were still covered in blood, my mind still buzzing with the rush of creation. I stood over the canvas, admiring the masterpiece I had forged—Tapestry of Pain—Claire's suffering, her agony, immortalized in a way that words could never describe. Her pain was the brushstroke of my artistry, the raw emotion of the moment woven into the very fibers of the painting.
I took a step back, running my fingers through my hair, a small smile tugging at the corners of my lips. The satisfaction was consuming, like a drug I couldn't quit. I knew that with every piece I created, I was getting closer to something bigger—something that would leave an indelible mark on the world.
The sound of my phone buzzing in my pocket broke through the trance I had fallen into. It was the same buyer—the man who had purchased my previous painting, The Eyes of the Innocent. His messages had become a familiar rhythm, one that signaled the next step in this twisted dance.
I glanced at the screen, a brief hesitation in my chest. But then I slid my thumb across the screen, unlocking the message.
"I want it." It was simple. Efficient. Exactly what I had hoped for.
I allowed myself a small laugh, feeling the weight of the transaction settling over me. The buyer was the same wealthy man who had paid an obscene amount for my last piece. He didn't ask questions. He didn't care about the backstory. He simply wanted the art, and that was all that mattered. To him, it was nothing more than a valuable painting. To me, it was the culmination of my twisted creativity.
I quickly packed the painting, careful not to smudge the blood. Every stroke, every detail needed to be preserved for the buyer. I wasn't sure what he saw in my work—what drew him to it—but I knew he would pay handsomely. And the more he bought, the more I could create. It was a cycle that fed itself.
A few hours later, I found myself in the back of a sleek black car, the painting carefully wrapped in protective layers, resting beside me. The buyer's personal assistant had arranged everything, from the delivery to the handoff. The entire process was effortless, like clockwork.
We arrived at a massive, ostentatious mansion, the kind that screamed wealth and power. The kind of place that belonged to someone who didn't care about the origins of the art they collected, only its value. I stepped out of the car, adjusting the painting under my arm, and walked toward the door, a sense of familiarity settling over me. I had been here before—at least once, maybe twice—but it was the same feeling every time. Cold. Detached. A reminder of the world I inhabited.
The door swung open, and the assistant greeted me with the same businesslike smile. No pleasantries. No small talk. Just the exchange. I followed him inside, the interior of the mansion echoing with emptiness. The walls were adorned with a variety of art pieces, but none of them had the same weight as mine. None of them were alive in the way my work was.
The buyer was waiting for me in the study, his back to me as he stared out of a massive window. He didn't turn when I entered, but I knew he had seen me. He always saw me.
He turned after a moment, his expression unreadable as his eyes met mine. "Another masterpiece," he said, his voice rich and smooth. "I'll have it placed in the collection."
I nodded, not speaking, as he examined the painting. He ran his fingers along the edges of the frame, his gaze lingering on the blood-soaked canvas. The silence between us was thick with understanding. He was a man of few words, but we didn't need to say anything. The transaction was simple. It always was.
He handed me an envelope, thick with cash. It was more than I had expected, and yet I knew I could ask for more. I could demand more, push the boundaries. But for now, I was satisfied. I had what I wanted—validation. Proof that I was on the right path.
As I left the mansion, the door closing behind me, I felt the familiar emptiness creeping in. The thrill of the transaction faded as quickly as it had arrived, leaving me with only the hunger. The hunger for more.
I returned to my apartment, the weight of the painting's sale still heavy on my mind. The night had slipped away too quickly, and soon I found myself lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, my mind racing with thoughts. Becker's messages had become more frequent, but they no longer held the same appeal. She was a distraction—a fleeting curiosity. My focus was elsewhere.
I closed my eyes, letting the exhaustion of the day settle in. Sleep was a welcomed escape, but it never lasted long. The dreams always came—visions of blood, of faces twisted in pain, of the art that flowed through me like a river of darkness.
And then, the sound of my phone buzzing once more pulled me from the edges of sleep. I groaned, grabbing it from the bedside table. The screen was dark, the message notification flashing in bright white letters.
I unlocked the phone, expecting another mundane text—perhaps from Becker or the buyer confirming the deal was complete. But instead, what I saw sent a chill down my spine.
"I know what you're doing."
I stared at the screen, my breath hitching in my throat. The message was short, almost casual, but the words held weight.
It was anonymous. No name. No trace. Just a cold, direct statement. I felt a knot twist in my stomach. Someone knew. Someone was watching.
For a moment, I froze, my heart pounding in my chest. I tried to shake the feeling, telling myself it was just a prank, just some random person messing with me. But deep down, I knew it wasn't. I knew I wasn't as invisible as I thought.
I tapped the screen, my fingers trembling slightly as I typed a reply, but before I could finish, another message appeared.
"You won't get away with it."
The hairs on the back of my neck stood up, my body frozen in place. The room seemed to grow colder, darker, the walls closing in around me. I stared at the message, the words burning into my mind.
Who was this?
Who knew?
And most importantly, how much did they know?
I tossed my phone aside, the screen lighting up the dark room as I sat up in bed, my heart still racing. The shadows seemed to move in the corners of my vision, the weight of the unknown pressing down on me. For the first time in a long while, I felt something close to fear.
But fear was just another emotion to exploit. And if they thought they could scare me, they were wrong.
I lay back down, forcing my breath to slow, but sleep was a long time coming.