She turned the sketchbook toward herself , what met her eyes made her pause.

Alaric leaned back slightly, his  eyes studying her reaction with quiet amusement. “See?” he murmured. “I told you, you wouldn’t like it.”

It was her in the drawing.

Every delicate detail was captured flawlessly—the arch of her brows, the soft curve of her lips, the way her hair fell over her shoulder as she painted. It was as if he had frozen her in time, making her more beautiful than she believed herself to be.

“I look…” she trailed off, marveling at the lifelike strokes. “I look even more gorgeous than I do in reality.”

Alaric tilted his head slightly, lips curving in an unreadable smile. “You do.”

But there was something else as well.  The difference. The thing that sent a shiver down her spine.

Her painted self was not simply standing in the middle of the room, painting.

But also She was caged.

Thick, iron bars surrounded her, forming a prison—one large enough to keep her trapped, but small enough to suffocate. The lock on the cage door was firm, unbreakable. She was locked inside. Sealed away.

Her breath hitched. “Why… why am I in a cage?”

Alaric’s fingers lingered over the edges of the sketchbook. He had been expecting this question. His mind, however, was far from here. It wandered into darker places .

Because this is what you become if you stay with me long enough—beautiful, free, yet caged. Bound. Bound to my darkness. Become a second version of me just like I craved .

"Alaric," she called.

He was so lost in thought—imagining it, picturing her behind real bars—that he barely heard her.

“Alaric,” she said again, snapping her fingers in front of him.

He blinked. “Huh?”

“Where were you lost?” she asked, tilting her head slightly.

“Nowhere.” He forced a smile. “What were you saying?”

She frowned, glancing at the drawing again. “Why did you draw me like this?”

“Oh, that?” His voice was casual, too casual. “You just looked so beautiful while painting. I felt like capturing the moment.”

She chuckled. “That’s a really nice compliment, but…” her fingers traced the bars in the drawing. “Why am I in a cage?”

Alaric let out a small laugh, scratching the back of his neck. “Oh, that. Sorry if it startled you. You know I have a dark art style, right? I just needed to add some darkness to balance the beauty.” His voice was smooth, convincing. “Did it offend you?”

“No, it’s not like that,” she said quickly. “I was just… surprised.”

“Still, sorry.”

“Don’t be.” She shook her head, smiling again. “I never thought… not even in my imagination… that my cru—” She stopped herself, cheeks warming before correcting, “—that my favorite artist would ever paint me.”

Alaric watched her, amused.

“I never knew I looked this good,” she added, staring at his sketch once more.

He leaned closer, his voice barely above a whisper. “You look even better in reality.”

She swatted his arm lightly. “Stop it, or I’ll end up blushing too hard.”

They both laughed, but as her laughter faded, her eyes lingered on the drawing. Something about it unsettled her.

The details were too intricate.

The bars were drawn with such precision, as if he had studied them.

The lock looked so real… as if it truly existed somewhere.

***

"Let's take a coffee break. You must be tired," he said.

"Kind of," she admitted. It had taken her four hours to finish a realistic-looking drawing.

"Yeah, sure," she agreed.

"Come," he said with a smile, and she followed him.

As they entered the hall, he gestured toward the couch. "You sit, I'll bring the coffee."

"I'll help you," she offered.

He raised an eyebrow. "Help with what? Just sit," he insisted.

She wanted to stay near him, so she made a sad face, hoping to change his mind.

"Okay, fine," she said, giving in.

"Okay," she said with a sad face and plopped onto the sofa.

He was in the kitchen, lost in making coffee. She turned her face toward him, watching him move with ease.

No matter what he does, he always looks handsome, she thought to herself, admiring the way his sleeves were slightly rolled up, his focused expression making him look effortlessly attractive.

Just then, he looked up.

Panicked, she snapped her head away so fast that she almost lost her balance. She grabbed the edge of the sofa, pretending she hadn’t been blatantly staring at him.

He only smiled at her obvious and failed attempt at subtlety.

Little did he know, she thought of him as more than just an artist.

Maybe… he was her crush.

Possible, he thought to himself, smirking as he poured the coffee.

—

Stop acting like this! What will he think of you? she scolded herself internally, shaking her head.

She needed a distraction before she embarrassed herself further. Her gaze darted around the room until it landed on a book placed on the table in front of her.

"Tainted."

She reached for it quickly but miscalculated her grip, knocking it off the table instead. The loud thud made her freeze.

Of course, just when I’m trying to act normal…

She hurriedly bent down to pick it up, hoping he hadn’t noticed.

---

He noticed and smiled again, shaking his head.

***

He poured coffee into two cups and carried them into the hall, where Iris sat curled up on the couch, completely absorbed in her book.

"Here’s your coffee," he said as he approached.

She barely acknowledged him, too engrossed in the pages.

She was only on the second or third chapter, maybe.

"Thanks," she murmured, accepting the cup without lifting her gaze.

He smirked, watching her. "You’ve read this before?"

"Not fully. Just enough," he replied, settling beside her.

Her curiosity flickered. "What’s the story behind his red-colored paintings?"

His smirk deepened. "Why don’t you read and find out?"

"Come on, spoil it for me!" she pleaded, placing her coffee on the table and turning to him with eager eyes, practically bouncing in anticipation.

Seeing her excitement, he placed his coffee down too, leaning in slightly as if sharing a dark secret.

"As you’ve read, it’s about a painter who only uses red in his artwork," he started.

She nodded, waiting.

"But there’s a catch," he continued, his voice dropping just a little, making the moment feel heavier. "That red? It’s not paint. It’s blood."

Her breath hitched. "Blood?"

He nodded. "Yeah. I didn’t read all the details, but I think he’s a serial killer. He kills people, collects their blood, and has it converted into paint for his art."

She froze, gripping the book tighter. A shiver crawled up her spine.

"What?" Her voice barely came out. "Why… why would he do that?"

"To give his paintings a realistic touch," he explained, as if it were the most obvious thing. "Isn’t that brilliant?" His eyes glinted with a fascination that unsettled her.

She stared at him, horrified. "Brilliant? That’s disturbing! He’s insane!"

He chuckled at her reaction. "Oh, and get this—he doesn’t just do it himself. He gets the blood converted at a shop. I even searched to see if such a place exists, and guess what? It does."

She gawked at him, her stomach twisting. "What?"

"Yeah," he nodded, his expression unreadable.

A chill passed through her. She suddenly felt the book too heavy in her hands.

"Nope. I’m done." She shut the book with a soft thud and placed it down as if it might contaminate her fingers. "What a sick bastard," she muttered, shaking her head, reaching for her coffee like she needed something warm to chase away the cold discomfort.

He tilted his head, watching her reaction with mild amusement.

She didn’t like it.

Why didn’t she appreciate the concept? It was intriguing, artistic, even genius in a twisted way.

"Why don’t you like it?" he asked, genuinely curious.

She exhaled. "It’s… good, but creepy," she admitted, sipping her coffee.

He leaned back against the couch, thoughtful.

If she keeps thinking this way, she’ll never understand true art, he mused to himself, fingers tapping lightly against his cup.

___

"I’d rather watch TV than read this," Iris said, setting the book aside. Without another word, she grabbed the remote and turned on the television.

He just looked at her, exhaling softly. Maybe I was expecting too much.

She scrolled through the channels absentmindedly until her fingers paused on a news broadcast. Her expression shifted slightly as she focused on the screen.

A dead body was being shown.

The anchor’s voice filled the room.

He turned toward the TV, the serious tone catching his attention.

"It’s the same serial killer—the same young man. But this time, his killing is more terrifying. The boy you see here was stabbed more than a hundred times. His body was completely drained of blood. However, at the crime scene, not a single drop of it was found. It’s as if the killer deliberately extracted and collected it," the anchor reported.

Iris’s breath hitched. "Gosh..." she muttered, gripping her coffee cup a little tighter.

He glanced at her, watching her reaction.

"People are really scary these days," she murmured, shaking her head.

A brief silence settled between them.

Then, out of nowhere, he spoke.

"Would you like to come with me?"

She turned her gaze toward him, confused. "Where?"

"I’m going to that shop—the one that makes paint from blood," he said, his tone calm, almost too casual.

Her eyes widened. "What?" She blinked, startled. "Why?"

"I want to see how it looks. Wanna come with me?" he asked, his expression unreadable.

She hesitated. Every rational thought told her to say no. But curiosity—it was a dangerous thing.

"...Sure. Why not?" she finally said, though doubt lingered in her voice.

A smirk played on his lips.

"I still can’t believe this is real," she muttered, shaking her head.

"You will," he said, his voice smooth. "After we buy it."

Her fingers tightened around her coffee cup. "You’re actually going to buy blood paint?"

"Of course," he said simply.

A shiver ran down her spine. "Will you… work with it?"

"Hmm," he hummed, taking a slow sip of his coffee. "Maybe. Will you?" He asked her

She swallowed. "I don’t know…"

He tilted his head, watching her closely. Then, with a slight smirk, he thought to himself—

You will. I’ll make sure of it. Because you have to.