The moment Iris and Alaric stepped inside, the air seemed to shift—thicker, heavier, as if the very walls were holding their breath.

The shop was pristine, almost unnervingly so. The floors gleamed, reflecting the dim lighting overhead. The scent of paint—rich, metallic, and subtly sharp—clung to the air, mingling with something else. Something that made Iris’s pulse quicken. The walls, a stark white, reflected the glow of overhead lights, casting an almost sterile ambiance. But beneath that cleanliness lurked something… heavy.

Rows of glass containers lined the shelves, each filled with deep crimson liquid. Not just paint—red blood paint. The color was thick, rich, unnervingly organic. Each container bore a number and a name, neatly printed on a silver tag. Some names were common, others unfamiliar, and some… missing entirely. Just numbers. No names.

Names.

Iris’s fingers curled slightly at her sides. It wasn’t just a system. It was a record.

The hall ahead stretched into darkness, its walls adorned with grotesque yet mesmerizing paintings, each bathed in shades of red. The subjects twisted into horrifying beauty—a woman with her lips sewn shut, a man screaming in silence, a pair of hands reaching out from shadows, pleading, desperate.

Some canvases bore indistinct figures, their faces smudged as if the artist had been interrupted mid-stroke. Others had gaping holes, slashes through the paint, as if something had fought to escape from within.

A shiver crawled down Iris’s spine.

She could almost hear them.

Alaric moved beside her, his gaze lingering on a particular painting—a pair of eyes, wide and terror-stricken, staring directly ahead, frozen in time. His lips curled into a slow, knowing smirk.

"Perfect," he murmured.

Iris swallowed hard.

Something about this place felt alive.

The further she looked, the deeper the unease set in. paintings—especially the ones closest to the back—looked disturbingly realistic. The glint of moisture, the depth of the color, the way it absorbed light instead of reflecting it.

Alaric’s lips curled into a smirk as he approached one of the glass containers, running his fingers over the smooth surface. “Perfectly preserved,” he murmured. His voice was calm, but there was something else laced beneath it. Admiration.

Iris swallowed. The shop was clean, almost clinical in its organization, yet it felt anything but. It wasn’t the mess of an artist’s workshop. It was controlled. Curated. A gallery of something far more intimate than simple paint and canvas.

She didn’t want to ask. Didn’t want to break the silence.

But the question burned on her tongue.

“Who names them?” she finally whispered.

Alaric chuckled, the sound low and indulgent. He turned to her, amusement flickering in his gaze.

“Whoever they belonged to.”

The moment the shopkeeper appeared, Iris felt her chest tighten.

"Welcome, Mr. Alaric," the man greeted, his voice deep and smooth, yet carrying an unsettling edge.

Both Alaric and Iris turned to face him.

The man looked to be in his mid-thirties, tall and broad-shouldered, with a presence that commanded attention. His muscles strained against the dark fabric of his shirt, but it wasn’t just his physique that made him intimidating—it was the way he carried himself. Confident. Unapologetic. Like a man who had seen the worst of the world and had no regrets about it. His sharp, calculating eyes locked onto Alaric, but when his gaze flickered toward Iris, something in his expression made her stomach twist. There was no immediate threat in his stance, yet he exuded the kind of danger that needed no warning.

Alaric stepped toward him, his head tilting slightly. "And how exactly do you know I’m Alaric?"

The man smirked, an amused gleam in his eyes. "We accept only one client a day," he said simply. "That means whoever walks through that door is already expected."

Iris didn’t like the certainty in his tone.

"Your paint is ready," the man continued. "But first, you need to agree to the terms and conditions."

"Terms and conditions?" Iris echoed, a frown creasing her brow.

Alaric barely reacted, as if this was nothing new to him. Instead, he turned to her with a casual smirk. "You stay here and look around. I’ll go get the paint."

Iris tensed. "I’m coming with you."

Alaric’s smirk deepened. "And what will you do there? Look around, get some inspiration," he murmured, his voice laced with something almost teasing, almost sinister.

She didn’t respond. Just held his gaze, trying to read past the nonchalance.

Without another word, Alaric turned and followed the shopkeeper deeper into the store, vanishing into the dimly lit hallway beyond.

Iris remained where she was, surrounded by the haunting paintings and the silent, waiting containers.

***

The shopkeeper returned, carrying a can of deep red paint. The metal gleamed under the dim lighting, and as he set it down on the table between them, a dull clink echoed through the room. The weight of it—more than it should have been—made the moment feel heavier.

"As you requested, no name is written on it," the man said, his voice low and unhurried. His rough fingers brushed over the lid before he pulled his hand away.

Alaric leaned back slightly, observing the can with a knowing smirk. But the shopkeeper wasn’t done. He stepped back, the wooden chair groaning under his weight as he sat down across from Alaric.

"The one and only condition," he murmured, his dark eyes locking onto Alaric’s, "is that the first painting you create with this must belong to us."

The words settled between them like a binding thread, invisible yet unbreakable.

Alaric tapped his fingers against the table, his expression unreadable. The shop around them remained eerily silent—no ticking clock, no faint hum of machines. Just the low, electric buzz of anticipation in the air.

A slow grin spread across his lips. "And what do you plan to do with it?"

The shopkeeper's gaze didn’t waver. "Our product promotion"

For a moment, neither of them spoke. Then, Alaric reached forward, dragging his fingertips across the can’s surface, feeling the cold metal beneath his touch.

"Fine," he murmured, amusement flickering in his eyes. "Let’s make something unforgettable, then."

***

Iris stood frozen in front of the painting, unable to tear her gaze away. The strokes of red looked almost alive, shifting under the dim light, the shadows stretching as if whispering secrets only they could understand. The longer she stared, the deeper the unease curled in her stomach.

A voice, low and teasing, brushed against her ear.

"Liked it?"

She jolted, a startled gasp escaping as she spun around.

A man stood dangerously close, his presence almost blending into the shop’s eerie atmosphere. His smirk deepened at her reaction, amusement flickering in his dark eyes.

"Did I scare you?" he asked, tilting his head slightly.

Iris took a step back, putting space between them. There was something about him—too calm, too composed, as if he thrived on the discomfort of others.

He turned his attention back to the painting. "I made this."

She blinked, studying him properly now. He looked… normal. Too normal. No wild eyes, no ominous aura. Just an average man, the same age as Alaric. And yet…

"You made this?" she asked, disbelief laced in her tone.

A soft hum of confirmation. "Hmm."

Her eyes flickered back to the painting, the twisted, nightmarish imagery sending another shiver down her spine. "It's terrifying."

He chuckled, a dark, knowing sound. "A dark painting that isn’t scary is worthless. If it doesn't unsettle you, it’s not real enough." His smirk widened. "

Something about the way he said it made her fingers twitch.

His gaze flickered back to her, sharp with interest. "What’s an innocent girl like you doing here?"

Iris hesitated. "I came with my friend. He’s buying paint."

The man’s eyes gleamed with something unreadable. "So… your friend is a killer."

The casualness of his words sent ice down her spine.

She snapped her gaze to him, her heart pounding. "What?"

He raised an eyebrow. "Why are you looking at me like that?"

Her voice came out quieter than she intended. "Why would you say that?"

He smirked, stepping closer. "How else do you think he got this much  blood for the paint?"

"This paint is customized," he said, his tone almost amused. "You have to give blood to get it."

Iris's fingers twitched at her sides. "What?"

The man chuckled, slow and deliberate. "You heard me."

Her throat felt dry. She glanced at the painting again, the deep reds that seemed almost too rich, too thick. No. It couldn’t be.

"You’re lying," she whispered.

He sighed, as if disappointed. "People always want to believe that." He took a step closer, his voice dipping lower, more intimate. "But you want to know the truth, don’t you?"

Iris didn’t move.

He leaned in slightly, his breath warm against her ear. "Ten pints of blood make just one pint of paint."

Her stomach lurched.

"That's how much it takes." His voice was steady, almost casual. "Drained, filtered, refined. And still, the color is never quite right—unless it's fresh."

Iris forced herself to meet his gaze. "You’re insane."

He grinned. "Maybe." His head tilted. "But tell me something—" he gestured toward the shelves, toward the glass containers filled with deep crimson liquid. "How many pints do you think your friend bought? Hositpal won't land that much blood , I'm not saying we do it ,  I'm talking about your friend what If he is a killer "

Her breath stilled.

Author note: Was it boring? 🥲