"Fine, I agree," Alaric said, a slow smirk creeping onto his face. "Let's make something unforgettable."

His voice was smooth, almost amused, as if he were discussing an ordinary evening plan rather than something far more sinister.

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the wooden counter, his fingers tapping rhythmically against the surface. "Tell me… it's you who creates the paint, right?"

The man behind the counter, oblivious to the shift in atmosphere, nodded. "No, actually, it's my friend's son. He's about the same age as you."

A spark of intrigue flickered in Alaric’s eyes. "So then, there’s no problem if you die, right?"

His brows furrowed, and a nervous chuckle slipped past his lips. "What?"

Alaric didn’t blink. He simply leaned in closer, lowering his voice as if sharing a secret. "The thing is, I don’t do normal paintings. I create them out of reality. I bring them to life—literally."

The man’s confusion deepened. "I don’t get what you mean."

Alaric exhaled as if mildly disappointed. "Wanna see me paint?" His tone was almost playful, but the sharpness in his gaze was anything but.

The man hesitated. "You mean… right now?"

Alaric glanced around. "This place is pretty far out. It’s not like I can come and go that easily. So I figured, if I have to hand over a painting, why not create it today itself? That way, I can also test the quality of the paint."

The man considered it for a moment, then shrugged. "You have a point. Alright, let me bring the supplies."

Alaric watched as he disappeared into the back, gathering a blank canvas, brushes, and bottles of paint. But Alaric’s gaze flickered to something else—a small, sharp knife resting near the counter. His fingers twitched.

"Bring that too," Alaric instructed, pointing at the blade.

The man frowned but picked it up anyway. "What do you need this for?"

He handed it over without much thought, but the moment the handle left his fingers, Alaric’s entire demeanor shifted.

In a heartbeat, he surged forward. The knife plunged deep into the man’s throat.

His eyes widened in sheer disbelief, blood spilling from his mouth as his hands shot up to his neck, trying to stop the inevitable.

"W-what are you doing…?" he choked, voice barely a whisper.

Alaric tilted his head, his expression eerily serene. "Creating inspiration for my art."

He placed a firm hand on the man’s chest and shoved him backward, forcing him into the chair with a sickening thud.

The man tried to scream, to call for help, but Alaric had been precise—the blade had severed just enough to silence him, but not enough to kill him instantly.

"Shhh…" Alaric hushed, kneeling beside him as if soothing a frightened child. "You don’t want to ruin my concentration, do you?"

Blood dripped from the man’s throat, staining his shirt, pooling onto the floor. His body trembled, his fingers twitching uselessly.

Alaric exhaled contentedly. His hand reached out, dipping his fingers into the fresh blood. He smeared a streak of crimson across the blank canvas, a smile tugging at his lips.

"Now this," he murmured, "is how true art begins."

Blood spilled down his chest, soaking into his clothes, staining his hands as he weakly grasped at life.

Alaric stepped back, tilting his head, admiring his work. The contrast of crimson against pale flesh—the way fear lingered in his victim’s eyes even in death.

He exhaled, pleased. "Now, let’s paint."

***

"Chill, girl. I was just joking with you," he said, laughing, his voice light but his eyes unreadable.

Iris exhaled sharply, pressing a hand against her chest. "You scared me."

He smirked, tilting his head. "What? Did you actually think your friend was a killer?"

"Of course not!" she shot back, crossing her arms tightly.

His grin widened as he studied her, amusement flickering in his gaze. "I can see that," he chuckled. "But for a second there… you weren’t so sure, were you?"

She hesitated. The way he said it—too observant, too entertained—made her uneasy.

"It’s not like that," she muttered, shifting on her feet. "But if you were the one claiming to be a killer, I probably would’ve believed it immediately." She eyed him warily. "You even look like one."

His smirk deepened. "Thanks for the compliment."

She blinked, staring at him in disbelief. "You take that as a compliment?"

He simply tilted his head, eyes gleaming with something unreadable. "Shouldn’t I?"

A shiver ran down her spine. "Creepy."

He only smiled at that, a slow, knowing curve of his lips that sent goosebumps crawling over her skin.

***

Alaric stepped back, admiring his work as he hung the painting on the wall. The deep reds, the intricate strokes—it was more than a painting. It was a masterpiece.

“Now this… this is called art.” His voice dripped with satisfaction as he took in the gruesome beauty of what he had created.

Turning around, he smirked. "What do you say?" he asked, tilting his head.

But the man—his supposed audience—sat lifeless, his head slumped, his skin a canvas of pain and silence.

Alaric scoffed. "Man, these days are so weak."

He crouched before the corpse, his fingers tracing the precise cuts on the dead man's body—deep, deliberate, poetic. The wounds weren’t just slashes; they were art etched in flesh, like twisted tattoos revealing the raw skin beneath.

"You see, I don’t like being given orders." His tone turned cold, detached. "Terms and conditions? What’s that? I gave you money—just take it and give me what I asked for. Why act like you hold any power?"

His lips curled into a smirk as he tilted his head at the corpse. "What if I had refused? Would you have denied me the paint?"

Silence.

Alaric chuckled, shaking his head. "Of course, no answer now."

He stood up, stretching his arms as if shaking off the last remnants of his performance. "The paint’s quality is good, but I’m afraid I won’t be coming back. Because, let’s be honest… nothing beats painting with real blood."

His gaze lingered on the lifeless body, his smirk widening.

"Anyway, I’m late. Have a safe journey—to heaven or hell. Wherever you belong."

With that, Alaric turned on his heel and walked away, leaving behind nothing but death, art, and the lingering scent of blood.

***

Alaric stepped out of the room, the weight of the paint container in his hand grounding him. His sharp eyes flickered toward Iris and the guy standing too close to her.

Alaric’s jaw clenched. He didn’t like it. The way the man smirked at something, while Iris looked uneasy—it irritated him.

"Let’s go, Iris." His voice was calm, but his strides were firm as he approached them.

Iris turned toward him. “What took you so lon—” Her words caught in her throat as she noticed the dark stains on Alaric’s shirt. Blood.

She swallowed hard.

Alaric glanced down at himself before offering a casual shrug. "Don't mind this. I accidentally dropped some paint on myself." His tone was eerily light.

The guy's smirk faltered as he studied him.

Iris let out a small breath. “Oh… You scared me for a second.”

"Let's go." Alaric didn’t wait for a response as he started walking away.

“Yeah.” Iris followed, still glancing at his shirt.

Alaric stopped beside the guy and extended his hand for a handshake. “Take care of this shop.” His words sounded normal, but something about his tone felt...off.

The guy hesitated but shook his hand anyway.

As Alaric and Iris walked away, the guy watched them, his eyes narrowing.

“Your friend looks more like a killer than me, girl.” he said

He exhaled

He turned toward the back of the shop, frowning. “Where did Uncle go?”

His steps were slow as he approached the room where Alaric had been earlier.

Just as he reached the door—

BOOM!

A deafening explosion erupted, sending flames bursting through the entrance.

"UNCLE!" He shouted, stumbling back as fire swallowed the room in an instant.

The heat was unbearable. The smoke, suffocating. There was no way inside.

His stomach twisted.

---

Meanwhile, in the car, Iris jolted at the distant blast.

"What was that?" Her voice held a mix of confusion and unease.

Alaric didn’t even glance back.

He kept driving, eyes locked on the road, his lips curling slightly. "Must’ve been something," he said, his tone completely unbothered.

The car moved forward, leaving behind fire, destruction, and a secret that would never be traced back to him.

***

Smoke choked the air, curling around him like a living entity as he stepped into the inferno. The heat was unbearable, licking at his skin, singeing the edges of his clothes.

His eyes darted around the burning room—a complete disaster. Flames danced along the walls, consuming everything in their path. But the sight that truly made his stomach churn—

His uncle’s body, engulfed in fire.

His breath hitched. “How the hell did this happen?” His voice was barely audible over the crackling flames.

His instincts kicked in, and he immediately grabbed the fire extinguisher he had brought earlier, desperately trying to put out the fire. But it barely made a difference.

The flames were relentless. Stronger than they should be.

Then—the scent hit him.

Not just the usual smell of burning wood and chemicals—this was different. Metallic, thick.

The smell of real blood.

Something clicked in his mind. The fire wasn’t just burning. It was being fed.

His stomach twisted in realization. Blood. It was fueling the flames.

“Shit.” He stumbled back, panic creeping up his spine. He needed to get out, call the fire brigade—do something.

But just as he turned to leave, his body froze.

His gaze locked onto something across the room.

A painting.

A single, untouched painting.

Amidst the raging fire, everything was turning to ash—except that one piece of art hanging on the wall.

The flames licked at its edges, but it remained pristine, untouched.

Not a single scratch.

It made no sense. The entire room was collapsing, but this painting stood resilient, as if protected by something unnatural.

Despite the suffocating heat, he felt a cold shiver crawl down his spine.

Slowly, he stepped toward it, scanning the canvas with wide, disbelieving eyes.

He already had a gut feeling.

He read the artist’s name in the corner.

Alaric.

His lips parted, caught between shock and morbid fascination.

And then he saw the painting in full detail.

It was his uncle.

Seated on a chair, slumped forward—just like the corpse burning in front of him.

But it wasn’t just a portrait. It was a masterpiece of horror.

His uncle’s skin in the painting was a grotesque canvas.

Carved into his flesh were intricate, swirling tattoos made entirely of deep, bloody cuts. Each line was precise, like an artist’s brushstroke, forming patterns that almost looked ceremonial.

His head was tilted at an unnatural angle, eyes empty and lifeless. Blood dripped down from the slashes, pooling at his feet.

The wounds in the painting matched the ones on the real body.

His uncle had been turned into art.

A slow smirk crept onto his face.

"So daring," he whispered.

***

Iris folded her arms, raising a brow. "What took you so long in there?"

Alaric exhaled slowly, flexing his fingers as if still feeling the weight of the brush—or something else.

"I got caught up in painting," he said, his voice smooth, unfazed.

Iris blinked. "You painted there?"

Alaric's lips curled slightly. "Yeah. I created another one of my masterpieces."

Her curiosity sparked. "You should’ve shown it to me."

He turned toward her then, his gaze locking onto hers with a strange intensity.

"Next time," he murmured  "I’ll create it right in front of you." A smirk played on his lips .