Archived on: 2025-11-26
— What Lies Behind the Portrait —
The trail on the bar's hauntings had gone cold.
I stared at the heap of documents on my desk. My head felt heavy, as if stuffed with lead. Then my phone buzzed.
It was Selene.
"Ryan, I found something about that painting!" Her voice carried restrained excitement, barely contained.
"Where are you?"
"The university library. Want to meet?"
It was 11:30 AM. All other leads had failed. Perhaps this so-called Portrait of a Beauty held the key.
"Alright. I'm on my way."
---
Selene spotted me across the campus entrance.
Black jeans, white printed tee—crisp, sharp, vibrant. She moved like a figure painted in motion.
"It's called Portrait of Aya the Healer," she said without preamble. "There's a story behind it—over a thousand years old."
"Healer? Aya?" I raised an eyebrow.
We walked side by side across the campus. Selene spoke as we went:
"Over a millennium ago, a young emperor fell gravely ill. Court physicians failed, so they sought the most skilled healers among the common people. Aya was the daughter of a medical family—talented, beautiful, a gifted dancer. She entered the palace with her father... and the emperor and she... they connected. They fell in love."
A story tinged with inevitable courtly tragedy.
"The Empress Dowager despised her low birth, seeing Aya as a corrupting influence. In the end... she ordered her execution."
I exhaled softly. "Harsh."
Selene lowered her voice. "The tragedy didn't end there. The emperor went mad. A eunuch gave him a cruel suggestion—"
She paused, letting the silence stretch.
"Go on," I urged.
"Use Aya's blood as ink, her bones for the brush, her hair for bristles. A court painter would capture her likeness. That way, the emperor could 'be with' her every night."
My chest tightened.
This was no longer love. Obsession had turned monstrous.
"After that, he spent every night with the painted figure. He died not long after, suddenly. All that remained was this Portrait of Aya the Healer—later known simply as the Portrait of a Beauty."
I sat in silence.
"But why is she veiled?"
"Strict customs," Selene explained. "Healer families forbade unmarried women from revealing their faces. Or... perhaps the emperor's most vivid memory of her was veiled."
I suspected the painter had a darker intent—forcing obsession...
"Obsession."
The word struck like lightning.
I grabbed my phone and dialed Jasper immediately.
---
— The Soulbound Portrait —
"Who gave you that painting?" I asked as soon as he answered.
Jasper sighed. "A friend who owned—or owned—a distillery. He said it came from the palace. What do I know? The office wall was bare, so I hung it up..."
"Where is he now?"
"He skipped town after his factory went under. Rumor says he fled the country. Why... is the painting a problem?"
"It could be a very big problem." I paused. "We need to examine it again."
"Damn it! If that thing's causing trouble, I'll skin that bastard Kai three times over!" Even through the phone, his fury hit like a physical force.
---
Back in the office, I walked straight to the painting.
An unfamiliar urge rose deep in my chest—
To lift the veil.
To see her face.
One glance could tear a rent through reason itself.
"Mr. Ryan... is it really the painting?" Jasper's voice snapped me back.
I stepped back, surfacing from that urge.
"It is. Not an ordinary beauty portrait. This... is the Portrait of Aya the Healer."
I recounted Selene's story.
"Blood ink... bone brush...?" Jasper's face drained. "Then... it's real?"
I said nothing.
I let my fingers graze the surface.
Not dry paper.
Not rough, aged canvas.
But soft. Smooth.
Like... skin.
My throat tightened. "It's possible."
"You—you felt something?" Jasper's voice trembled.
---
— Proof of Flesh —
"The situation is worse than I thought."
I kept my voice low.
"It isn't just blood, bone, and hair. The canvas itself—"I paused.
"—is human skin. Her own."
Jasper went rigid.
"H-human skin?" His voice cracked. "You're certain?"
"The texture," I said. "To be definitive, I need a comparison."
"A comparison?" His brow furrowed.
At that moment, the door opened.
Selene stepped inside, two bubble teas in hand—bright, relaxed, completely unaware.
Both Jasper and I turned toward her.
She stopped short.
"Why are you looking at me like that?" Her voice faltered. A shiver ran up her neck. "What... do you want?"
"You're just in time!" Jasper blurted, half-lunging forward. "Let Mr. Ryan touch you!"
Selene froze.
Her face flushed crimson. "Have you completely lost your mind?!"
"Not like that!" Jasper nearly shook with urgency. "He thinks the painting is human skin—he needs to compare it to real skin!"
Selene slowly turned to me.
I nodded, tone steady. "It's necessary."
She drew in a sharp breath, bracing herself. Then she rolled up her sleeve. "Here."
I shook my head.
"The arm won't do. Exposed skin weathers differently."I hesitated.
"The texture I felt matches the skin of the back."
Her face went an almost painful shade of red. She glanced at me—then at Jasper.
Jasper threw his hands up instantly. "I'll step out!"He fled the room as if the floor were on fire.
Selene hesitated, then turned her back to me. Slowly, she lifted the hem of her shirt, revealing a stretch of smooth, unmarked skin.
I placed my fingertips against her back.
Warm.
Resilient.
Alive.
Compared to the painting, the difference was minimal.
Hers—warm.
The canvas—cold.
"That's enough," I said, withdrawing my hand. "Thank you."
Selene lowered her head. "It's... fine. You're helping my cousin."
Jasper cracked the door open. "Is— is it over?"
I nodded.
"Confirmed. Human skin."
Selene sucked in a breath. "A painting made from skin..."Her voice dropped.
"Like Painted Skin?"
"No," I said quietly.
"Worse."
---
— The Skinbound Resurrection —
"This is the Skinbound Resurrection," I said, the words heavy as they left my mouth.
Selene's face drained of color.
Jasper slumped into a chair.
I leaned forward slightly.
"This method of soul revival requires a complete body."
"Skin becomes the canvas.
Bone, the brush.
Blood, the ink.
Hair, the bristles."
Silence thickened, pressing in from all sides.
"If the painting absorbs the vital essence of three hundred and sixty-five living people," I continued,
"she can be reborn—through the portrait itself."
Jasper's hands trembled.
"She... comes back?"
I gestured toward the painting.
"The figures within are the lives already consumed.
Three hundred and sixty-five marks the day of resurrection."
They leaned closer, fingers hovering above shadows layered within shadows.
No one spoke.
The silence grew heavy—suffocating.
"Rhan..." Jasper's voice shook.
"I counted twice. There are three hundred and sixty-three."
Selene swallowed.
"Add the central figure... that makes three hundred and sixty-four."
Cold slid down my spine.
"Two more."
Selene's voice wavered.
"You made us count because... the number keeps changing?"
"Yes."
I brushed my fingers lightly along the frame.
"Every soul she drains becomes a shadow—trapped within the skin."
I pointed to the details they had missed.
"Look at the clothing. Different eras. Different worlds."
Armor scarred by war.
Scholars' robes.
Tribal markings.
Garments spanning centuries—pressed into a single, breathing surface.
Selene whispered,
"No modern figures..."
"She was sealed for nearly a century," I said.
"She's only just begun feeding again."
Jasper's head snapped up.
"Two more..." His voice cracked.
"Does that mean—"
The words died in his throat.
None of us said it.
Because the answer—
was far worse than any of us were willing to name.