The room had changed.
No longer just a studio—it was an altar. Shadows hung heavy on the walls. The scent of linseed oil mingled with candle wax, and the floor was covered in sheets of canvas, layered like skin.
Liora stood in the center.
Naked. Blindfolded.
Arms loose at her sides, chest rising and falling like she was trying to breathe through desire and dread. She had asked for this. Begged for it. And now, she waited—for his touch or his torment, whichever came first.
Heian circled her slowly, brush in hand.
"You'll speak only when I ask," he said.
"Yes," she whispered.
He dipped the brush in a small bowl—not paint this time, but a mixture of powdered charcoal, oil, and her own dried blood. She had donated it willingly last night, slicing her palm and watching it drip into the jar like wine offered to a god.
He began with her neck.
A stroke. Gentle. Then a second—harder, across her breast. Then down, across her stomach, between her thighs. Each stroke marked her. Not colorfully, but ritually.
"Do you feel like art yet?" he asked.
"I feel like... prey."
He smiled.
"Good."
He stepped closer, pressed the wet bristles against her inner thigh—held it there.
Her breath hitched.
"You're shaking," he murmured.
"I want to be ruined."
"Why?"
"Because love is soft. And I don't want soft. I want you to make me disappear."
The brush fell.
He used his fingers now—smearing, dragging, pressing symbols into her skin. Each one from a language she didn't know, but her body understood.
She began to cry, not from pain—
but because finally, someone was seeing her as something more than a broken girl.
She was myth.
She was sacrifice.
He kissed her tear.
Not tender. Not cruel. Just honest.
"Lie down," he commanded.
She did.
He straddled her body, brush in one hand, blade in the other—not for violence, but for detail. He scraped shallow lines into her back, just enough to raise the skin.
Then he whispered:
"When this is done, you'll never belong to anyone else. Not even yourself."
She smiled.
"Good."
——