The iron gate of the Black Fortress prison groaned as it opened, a slow, tortured sound that echoed through the empty yard like a dying breath.
And then—silence.
Ian stepped forward.
No one greeted him. No one remembered him.
He wore a long black coat that trailed behind him like a shadow that refused to let go. The cold February wind brushed against his pale skin, but he didn't react. Didn't flinch. Didn't feel.
His left eye remained hidden beneath his dark, unkempt hair.
But his right eye… it watched the world differently.
It flickered.
A faint red glow—subtle, unnatural—like a coal that refused to die.
Ian raised his left hand.
Wrapped in dirty white bandages.
Still.
Silent.
Dead.
Not just a hand… but a memory.
A memory he could never forget.
Five years ago.
A cold room.
A man in uniform.
A boot pressing down on his wrist.
And then—
A blade.
The sound of flesh giving way.
The end of something that was once called a "hand."
Ian lowered his arm slowly.
His voice came out as a whisper.
"...Ian is gone."
He took a step forward.
"…What's left… is the artist."
The city did not recognize him.
Bright lights.
Hanging screens.
Advertisements that screamed of luxury, beauty, and success.
At the center of it all—
A name.
ANIS
A grand art exhibition.
"Pure Beauty: Under the Patronage of Critic Anis."
Ian stopped.
He stared at the screen.
And there he was.
Anis.
Smiling.
Confident.
Dressed in a bright yellow suit that almost burned against the background.
The same man who once called him "brother."
The same man who watched him fall.
The same man who sold him out for gold.
Ian did not move.
But something inside him did.
His vision shifted.
Distorted.
Warped.
Through his right eye…
Anis was no longer a man.
He was a canvas.
A disgusting one.
Yellow lines crawled through his body like a sickness. His chest pulsed with a dark, rotting color. His skin—no longer skin—became texture. Structure. Material.
A thing to be shaped.
A thing to be corrected.
Ian tilted his head slightly.
"…Still incomplete."
A faint smile touched his lips.
"…But I can fix that."
He turned away from the screen.
The city faded behind him.
Streetlights flickered.
The crowds blurred.
And Ian walked forward—
into the forgotten edge of the city.
The ruins of his studio stood there.
Burnt.
Broken.
Dead.
Once, it smelled of oil paint and flowers.
Now—
only ash.
Only silence.
Only ghosts.
Ian descended into the hidden basement.
A place the fire never reached.
A place the law never found.
A place… that waited.
Inside, darkness ruled.
Until a single candle was lit.
Its flame trembled.
And the room revealed itself.
Walls covered in massive blank canvases.
Clean.
Empty.
Waiting.
Waiting for what they were always meant to become.
Ian approached a wooden table.
He opened a metal case.
Inside—
No brushes.
No colors.
Only tools.
Scalpels.
Bone files.
And instruments made for precision… and destruction.
He picked up a scalpel.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
Then—
He dragged the blade across the bandage on his left hand.
A single drop of blood appeared.
Dark.
Heavy.
Alive.
Ian stared at it.
Then dipped his finger into it.
And touched the canvas.
One line.
Clean.
Perfect.
A name formed from that single stroke.
ANIS
Ian leaned closer.
His reflection stared back at him from the blade.
Not a broken man.
Not a victim.
Something else.
Something new.
"…The first piece," he whispered.
"…will be you."
His voice was calm.
Too calm.
"I will paint your final moment in colors this world has never seen."
A pause.
A breath.
A promise.
"Because true art…"
"…demands sacrifice."
The candle flickered.
A soft wind passed through the basement.
Or maybe—
Something else.
Ian didn't look back.
He didn't need to.
Because for the first time in five years—
he was not running from the past.
He was chasing it.
And somewhere in the silence…
The canvas seemed to wait.
For its first masterpiece.