It started with the sound of music.
Not the piano this time — something softer, older. A violin, its notes spilling faintly through the mansion like a whisper.
You followed it through the hallway, past the library and the sunroom, until you reached a door at the far end. It was slightly ajar, a pale light seeping out.
Pushing it open, you stepped into a room that looked like it belonged in a gallery.
The walls were covered in paintings — some small, some so massive they nearly touched the floor and ceiling. Every one of them was exquisite. Too exquisite.
And in the center of it all was Taehyung, brush in hand, the violin music coming from an old record player in the corner. He didn't notice you at first, too focused on the stroke of his brush across the canvas before him.
"Wow," you breathed without thinking.
His head turned. When he saw you, the cold mask you'd come to know as Cold Tae flickered for half a second before melting into Charming Tae's warm smile.
"Y/N," he said softly, "you weren't supposed to see this yet."
You stepped closer, drawn by the richness of the colors, the almost too real quality of the faces staring back from the canvases.
"These are… incredible," you murmured, your eyes darting from one portrait to another.
"Do you really think so?" His voice was light, but there was a strange hunger in his expression.
You nodded. "They look like photographs."
"They should," he replied simply. "I study my subjects very closely. Every detail matters."
You stopped in front of one particular painting — a woman with soft features and dark hair, her smile frozen in a way that felt… unnatural. Her eyes were hauntingly lifelike.
"Who is she?" you asked.
For a moment, Taehyung didn't answer. Then, his gaze dropped to the floor. "Someone I used to know."
Your fingers twitched at your sides. "What happened to her?"
"She left," he said flatly. Then the smile returned, sudden and too perfect. "Like I told you before."
You moved on, your curiosity pushing you toward a large canvas draped in a sheet at the back of the room.
"What's under here?" you asked, reaching for the fabric.
His voice was calm, almost playful. "You shouldn't."
"Why not?"
"Because you'll dream about it. And you won't wake up the same."
The way he said it made your hand freeze mid-air. But then he stepped forward, his smile soft again, and he pulled the sheet away himself.
Your breath caught.
It was you.
Your hair, your face, your eyes — captured so perfectly it was like staring into a mirror. Except in the painting, your eyes were clouded over in grey, your skin pale as porcelain. A thin slash of crimson painted across your neck.
You stumbled back. "Taehyung… why—"
"It's unfinished," he said quickly, setting the sheet aside. "Don't look at it like that. I'm still working on the details."
Your voice shook. "Details? It looks—"
"Dead?" His tone was almost mocking, and for the first time, you saw it — Cold Tae, standing there inside Charming Tae's body, his eyes glinting like glass.
Then, just as quickly, the warmth returned. "It's art, Y/N. Art is meant to stir emotions. And you… you stir more in me than anyone else ever has."
You wanted to leave the room, but he stepped in your path, tilting his head like a curious cat.
"Do you like it?" he asked.
"I—"
"Good," he interrupted, not waiting for your answer. "Because it's only the beginning."
That night, long after you'd locked your bedroom door, you swore you heard the sound of a brush against canvas. Slow, steady strokes.
And in the morning, when you passed the art studio, the door was closed — but a faint, fresh scent of oil paint lingered in the air.