The room smelled of rust and damp earth, thick with the metallic tang of blood. Dim lighting flickered, casting elongated shadows on the cracked walls.The room was bathed in a crimson glow. A sickly warmth clung to the air, thick with the scent of iron—so strong it curled at the edges of Alaric’s senses.  The air was unnervingly still, except for the faint, ragged breathing of a man slumped in a chair—his skin pale, his chest barely rising.

Iris stood in front of him, her bare hands coated in something deep, wet, and glistening. Blood. She smeared it across the canvas with delicate strokes, fingers dancing over the surface like a composer shaping a symphony.

The subject of her art—a man, bound to a chair, chest heaving with sharp, ragged breaths. His skin was pale, drained, the life in his eyes flickering like a candle about to die out. But that didn’t stop her. She captured every detail. The way his muscles tensed, the way sweat clung to his skin, the way his pupils dilated in terror.

She painted with unsettling precision, capturing every fading detail of the man in front of her—his sagging eyelids, the way his lips trembled, the slow collapse of his spirit. Every once in a while, she would pause, tilting her head, her eyes flicking toward him as if checking to see if he was still alive.

Every so often, she flicked her gaze toward Alaric. Testing him. Teasing him. Inviting him.

Then, she turned slightly, her fingers tracing an unfinished stroke.

"Let’s make it interesting," she murmured, her voice silk and steel  hypnotic purr..

She stepped toward the man, her bare feet pressing against the cold floor, leaving faint streaks of red in their wake. Without hesitation, she slid onto his lap, straddling him effortlessly,

her presence suffocating yet graceful. He whimpered, barely able to flinch.

She turned away from the canvas, stepping toward the man, her bare feet whispering against the cold, blood-slick floor. He flinched. Oh, how she loved that.

With a soft hum, she crouched beside him, dragging her crimson-stained fingers up his trembling arm, leaving behind streaks of his own essence. “You’re doing so well,” she cooed, as if comforting a child.

"You’re slipping away," she whispered
"but I need you to stay just a little longer."

Then, slowly, deliberately, she pressed a bloodied thumb against his throat, feeling the frantic pulse beneath her touch.

“But art is nothing without…” she exhaled, tilting her head as she pulled something from the table beside her.

A razor-thin scalpel.

The man whimpered.

Iris smirked, dragging the blade lightly down his collarbone—just enough to split the skin without taking too much. Blood welled up, rich and thick.

She dipped two fingers in it.

Swirled them.

Then pressed her fingertips to her lips, tasting the warmth like a wine connoisseur savoring a rare vintage.

Alaric’s breath hitched.

Her gaze lifted to his, dark and intoxicating. “Now this… this is pure.”

With newfound inspiration, she turned back to the canvas, her blood-coated hands moving in perfect rhythm. The man gasped, his breaths shallower, weaker. The painting captured it all—his last shreds of fear, his fading existence, his soul being transferred onto the canvas stroke by stroke.

Then, she reached for the blade on the nearby table, its silver gleaming under the dim light. But instead of slicing into him, she turned back to the canvas.

With precise movements, she used the edge of the blade to carve fine, intricate lines into the paint, distorting the man’s face in her artwork—stretching his agony across the canvas as if even the painting wasn’t allowed to let him go.

A faint chuckle echoed in the air, but it wasn’t hers.

It came from behind Alaric.

A presence loomed, unseen but felt, breathing against his neck, pressing into his skin.

"You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?" the voice purred.

Alaric jolted awake, his breath uneven, chest rising and falling in sharp bursts. His skin felt damp—whether from sweat or something else, he wasn’t sure. For a moment, the lines between dream and reality blurred.

He blinked. Once. Twice. The room was silent. Still.

His gaze flickered around, grounding himself. The dark walls. The faint hum of the air conditioner. The soft glow of early morning spilling through the blinds.

A slow smirk tugged at his lips.

She was perfect.

The way she painted, the way her fingers caressed the canvas it was perfect.

His pulse steadied. He leaned back against the headboard, his smirk deepening as he replayed every moment. The strokes of blood, the way she whispered to the dying man, the gleam of the scalpel in her hands.

"I can’t wait to make this a reality," he murmured, his voice drenched in quiet amusement.

The digital clock on his nightstand flashed 7:00 AM.

With a sigh, he stretched his arms, rolling his neck before swinging his legs off the bed. Time to get up.

"Me and Iris have to go to the shop today, after all," he mused, pushing off the bed with an effortless grace.

***

Iris stood in front of the mirror, running her fingers through her hair, adjusting the strands until they fell just right. The reflection staring back at her was composed—poised, as always. But her mind? It wasn’t as still.

Her thoughts drifted—back to last night, back to Alaric. The way he spoke about The Tainted with such unfiltered excitement. The glow in his eyes, the quiet thrill in his voice—it was pure, raw fascination.

She had listened, watched, and for a fleeting moment, she had wondered.

Why does this captivate him so much?

A story of twisted fate, of darkness bleeding into art. Most would find it unsettling. But Alaric? He spoke of it as if it was beautiful.

Iris exhaled, shaking her head, brushing the thought aside.

What am I thinking? He’s an artist. A dark artist at that. Of course, something like this would pull him in—it’s normal for him.

Normal.

The word lingered in her mind longer than it should have.

A sharp blast of a car horn outside snapped her back to the present.

Iris blinked, staring at her reflection one last time before grabbing her bag.

He’s here.

With a final glance at herself, she squared her shoulders and stepped out the door.

She stepped out, the crisp morning air brushing against her skin.

"Ready?" Alaric asked, leaning against the car with a smirk.

"Always," she replied, sliding into the passenger seat with effortless ease.

"Let’s do this," he said, starting the car.

They had been driving for over an hour now, the cityscape slowly shifting into quieter streets. The hum of the engine and the rhythmic passing of streetlights filled the silence between them.

"How far is it?" she finally asked, glancing at him.

"Just half an hour more, I guess," he replied, his hands steady on the wheel.

"Oh, okay," she murmured, looking out of the window, watching the world blur past.

A few beats of silence passed before she turned to him again. "Alaric, can I ask you something?"

"Ask away," he said, his voice relaxed, yet attentive.

She hesitated for a moment before speaking. "Why does the idea of blood paint fascinate you so much?"

His grip on the wheel tightened slightly, and for the first time since they started driving, he turned his head to look at her.

"I know you love dark art—I love it too—but this idea… it’s unsettling," she admitted, her voice quieter now.

He exhaled through his nose, a small chuckle escaping his lips. "That’s because you love dark art, Iris. But I live it."

Her brows knitted together. "What do you mean?"

"You’re just seeing the blood," he said, his voice calm yet deliberate. "I’m seeing the emotion it holds. The story within every drop. Dark art doesn’t have to be realistic, but it has to mean something—has to impact And what has more impact than something that was once alive?"

She stared at him, absorbing his words, trying to grasp the depth of his perspective. "I guess you understand it better than I do… I just can’t seem to wrap my head around it."

"That’s okay," he murmured.

"But…" she trailed off, her gaze fixed on the road ahead. "Red paint will always just be paint, even if it’s made of blood. In the end, it dries, it fades—it becomes paint. So what’s the point of using blood in the first place?"

A slow smirk crept onto his lips. "Then what else do you want to paint with? Real blood?" He turned his head slightly, his gaze locking onto her. "Not a bad idea, though."

Her breath hitched.

The certainty in his voice sent a chill down her spine, making her fingers curl slightly against her lap.

Before she could respond, the car rolled to a halt.

She swallowed.

"You’re quiet all of a sudden," he noted, amusement laced in his tone.

She shook her head, regaining her composure as she looked around. Buildings towered around them, cold and uninviting.

"Where’s the shop?" she asked.

"It’s inside this building," he said, nodding toward a tall, looming structure in front of them.

Without another word, they stepped out of the car.

To be continued...