Adrian trudged through the city streets, his coat wrapped tightly around him, but it did little to keep the chill from gnawing through his bones. The gallery was behind him—stripped bare, silent, and burned into his memory—and the check in his pocket felt impossibly heavy, like a pulse he could neither ignore nor control.
The walk to his apartment was long. Every step echoed against the cracked pavement of the empty streets, and Adrian couldn't shake the feeling that eyes were following him. Not the suited men—they were gone—but something about the weight of that night pressed against his back, leaving him exposed.
His apartment building was one of those old, faded brick monstrosities that smelled faintly of mildew and fried food. The kind of place where walls were thin, and neighbors whispered too loudly. He hated it. But it was his, and more importantly, it was his alone.
Inside, the door squeaked as he closed it behind him. The apartment was modest: a small kitchen, a living room barely big enough for a sofa, and a single bedroom. And beneath it all, hidden behind a false panel in the floorboards of the bedroom, lay his underground studio—his sanctuary, his cage, his confessional.
He descended the narrow ladder, the air growing cooler as he reached the subterranean room. It smelled of turpentine, dust, and old paint, comforting in its own way. And yet, tonight, it felt hollow. His canvases weren't here—they weren't anywhere. Every painting he had poured his soul into that year was gone. Claimed. Taken.
He dropped into a chair, letting the check slip from his pocket onto the bare workbench. He stared at it, unblinking. The numbers blurred into shapes that seemed to mock him. Fifty thousand. Seventy. Eighty. All of it, his years of despair and beauty, converted into signed slips of paper he didn't know how to feel about.
Anger. Relief. Fear. Excitement. It twisted inside him until he felt sick.
The room seemed to shrink around him, walls pressing in. He wanted to scream, but the sound would only echo back at him, a hollow reminder of his solitude. Leonel's presence lingered like smoke, curling around the edges of his mind, filling the empty corners of his studio with something both terrifying and intoxicating.
Adrian ran a hand through his hair, tugging at the curls, trying to chase away the thought. It's just business. That's all. Money changes hands. That's all.
But it wasn't.
Not really.
He thought back to the moment Leonel had entered the gallery. That slow, deliberate walk. The way his eyes had scanned the room, paused, lingered on him. Not on the canvases for long—not like the canvases mattered—but on him. On Adrian.
And the way he had smiled, faint, almost cruelly, as if he knew something Adrian didn't yet.
Adrian clenched his fists. This is insane. I don't even know him. He could be—he could be anyone.
But the truth he refused to admit: it terrified him that he wanted him to be anyone.
Hours passed. Adrian didn't move. He didn't eat. He didn't drink. The studio, usually his refuge, became a mausoleum of absence. Every brush, every palette knife, every tube of paint stared back at him accusingly.
Finally, he stood, pacing, muttering fragments of thought. "I… I can't… I can't… he can't…"
And yet, despite his protests, despite the terror knotting in his chest, he touched the check again. He felt the weight, the smooth paper, the numbers.
It burned his fingers.
A knock at the apartment door startled him, making him jump. His heart leapt into his throat. He wasn't expecting anyone—he rarely had visitors.
"Who…?" he whispered, pressing himself against the wall, peering through the peephole.
No one.
Just a small envelope slipped under the door. The handwriting was elegant, precise. Adrian knelt to pick it up, hands shaking. Inside was a single card—thick, embossed—and a short note written in Leonel's unmistakable, deliberate script:
"Good work tonight. I look forward to more. –L"
Adrian's stomach churned violently. The check had been heavy, the absence of his work had been heavier, and now this—a reminder that Leonel's gaze, his ownership, wasn't confined to a gallery. It followed him, invaded his solitude.
He sank to the floor, card in one hand, check in the other. For the first time, he felt the weight of just how little control he had over his life.
And yet, despite the fear, the anger, the revulsion bubbling in his gut, part of him couldn't stop thinking about the man. The way Leonel's eyes had scanned him in the gallery. The slow smile, the calm authority. The way he had taken everything from him without a single word.
Adrian pressed his forehead to the cool concrete floor, shivering, and whispered into the silence of the studio:
"I don't… I don't know what to do."
And somewhere deep, somewhere he didn't want to acknowledge, he knew. The answer didn't matter. He had already begun to lose.
Outside, the city lights glimmered faintly through grimy windows, but down in the underground studio, Adrian felt swallowed by darkness. Alone. Vulnerable. Unmoored.
The night stretched endlessly. Somewhere between the shadows and the echoes, he could almost hear Leonel's voice again: smooth, deliberate, dangerous.
"Call me when you're ready to paint for me."
The words replayed, over and over, like a pulse Adrian couldn't escape.
He didn't move. He couldn't. And yet, he knew, somehow, that the night had already changed him forever.
Three weeks had passed since Leonel's men had stripped the gallery bare. Adrian had buried himself in work, in errands, in the small, concrete sanctuary of his underground studio. He had paid off his rent, cleared the past debts that had haunted him, and stocked up on new paints, brushes, canvases—everything he needed to keep painting.
His apartment, once bare and lifeless after the gallery incident, had begun to feel a little more like his own. The cluttered counters were lined with paint jars, sketchbooks, and unfinished canvases. He had even managed to salvage a small bookshelf, stacking his worn novels and reference materials alongside notebooks filled with frantic sketches.
It wasn't perfect. He wasn't happy. But for now, he had control.
Or so he thought.
A knock at the door jolted him from a half-hearted sketch. The sound was sharp, urgent, and immediately made him flinch.
He froze, brush hovering midair. The knock came again, harder this time.
Heart hammering, Adrian set the brush down. Who could it be? He never had visitors. Not in weeks. Not ever.
He opened the door a crack.
And froze.
Three men stood in the hallway, large and imposing. At their center was a man Adrian recognized instantly from the darkest corners of his past debts: Vito Greco, the kind of man whose business had never been legal, whose patience had limits, and whose reputation was terrifying.
"You," Vito said flatly, his eyes scanning Adrian's apartment with a predator's precision. "Open up. Now."
Before Adrian could react, the men pushed past him, their boots scraping across the floor, overturning a small table. Paint jars clattered, spilling thick colors across the hardwood, staining it with red and yellow that seemed to scream in protest.
Adrian's stomach lurched. "Please… please, I just—"
Vito's hand came down sharply on the back of Adrian's shoulder, shoving him to the floor. The other men began tossing canvases, ripping frames, smashing anything that wasn't bolted down. Adrian scrambled to his feet, tripping over paint-strewn rugs, heart pounding in his throat.
"Pay up," Vito said, looming over him. "I don't want excuses. I want cash. And I want it now."
Adrian swallowed, his throat dry. "I… I need a week. I swear. Everything, all of it, I can pay in a week."
Vito's eyes narrowed. For a moment, the apartment held its breath, the broken jars and overturned furniture frozen mid-chaos.
"You're lucky," Vito said finally, his tone cautious. "A week. If you don't pay…" His hands gestured vaguely at the destruction around him. "…you won't like it."
"Yes! I'll pay, I promise!" Adrian gasped, chest heaving.
Vito nodded to his men. "Leave. For now."
As they stormed out, Adrian sank to the floor, bruised, paint-smeared, heart hammering, and trembling. The apartment was a mess—his sanctuary, ruined—but he had survived. Barely.
He sank against the wall, breathing shakily.
Adrian tried to focus on cleaning, stacking canvases, and salvaging what he could. But the adrenaline hadn't faded. His nerves were raw. Every little sound—a car horn, a creak in the building—made him jump.
Then the phone rang.
It wasn't a number he recognized. It wasn't a "+" for overseas. It was just… unknown.
He froze, heart tightening. The memory of Vito's men was still raw, and now this?
Against his better judgment, he answered.
"Adrian Vale," he said, voice unsteady.
The voice on the other end was smooth, deep, calm. Leonel's voice.
"You're reconsidering," Leonel said, flatly. Not a question. Not an accusation. A statement.
Adrian flinched. "I—what?"
"The offer," Leonel continued, like he could hear Adrian's thoughts through the line. "It still stands. As if you were thinking of saying yes. Correct?"
Adrian's jaw went dry. "…I—" He swallowed. "…Yes."
A faint, almost imperceptible smile laced Leonel's words. "Good. Then I want to meet. Tonight. I'll send the address."
The line went dead.
Adrian's hands shook as he hung up. His mind raced. How could Leonel possibly know? The timing was impossible. And yet… here he was.
Two hours later, Adrian stood outside an immense wrought-iron gate, hands tucked into his coat pockets. The car that had delivered him to the mansion was sleek, black, silent. Its interior smelled faintly of leather and cedar.
The mansion itself was massive—classical architecture, white stone, columns, and fountains. Lights glittered like stars along terraces and in the windows, giving the impression of a world untouched by chaos. Adrian felt suddenly small, inadequate, painfully aware of the dirt on his hands, the scuff on his shoes.
A valet opened the door wordlessly, and Adrian was ushered inside. He barely had time to take in the marble floors and grand staircase before he was led into a study-like room with walls of dark wood, lined with shelves of books and objects he didn't recognize.
And there he was.
Leonel, standing near a desk, hands clasped behind his back. His green-and-silver eyes scanned Adrian like he was both predator and prey. Calm. Dominant. Terrifying.
"You made it," Leonel said simply, not a question.
Adrian swallowed hard, the words he had rehearsed catching in his throat. "I… I want to discuss terms."
Leonel gestured for him to sit. "Of course."
Adrian sat, careful, aware that this wasn't a negotiation he could fumble. He straightened his back. "I will be your personal painter. I will live in your house. Full-time. I will be available whenever you need me. And I—" He drew a deep breath. "I want to be compensated… enough to pay off my debts, clear my past, and then receive one hundred thousand every month."
Leonel tilted his head slightly, considering. "A high price," he observed.
"Not negotiable," Adrian said firmly. His eyes locked with Leonel's. "I don't want to be another asset you can discard. I want security. And I want to know my value."
Leonel's lips curved faintly, almost approving. "Security," he mused. "Interesting. Most people would take my money and thank me. You… demand respect. I like that."
Adrian's heart thudded, a mixture of fear and exhilaration. This was it. He had given his terms. Now, it was up to Leonel.
Leonel walked around the desk, placing his hands on Adrian's shoulders, steadying, controlling. "Agreed. Your terms. I will pay you as you demand. All your debts, cleared. One hundred thousand monthly. Full-time. You will work for me. You will live with me. Your paintings… belong to you, but you will paint only what I commission."
Adrian blinked, startled by the generosity—or the control, he couldn't tell which. "I… I accept."
Leonel's gaze softened, just slightly, but it was enough to send a shiver down Adrian's spine. "Good. Then consider yourself my personal painter, Adrian Vale. Full-time. From now on, you will have a place here. And I expect your loyalty."
Adrian nodded, voice barely above a whisper. "Yes… sir."
Leonel stepped back, letting the weight of his presence linger. "Tomorrow, you start. Come alone. Bring nothing but your supplies."
Adrian's stomach twisted, part fear, part anticipation. He left the mansion later that night, his mind racing, heart pounding. He had negotiated his freedom, yes—but he had also stepped into a world far more dangerous than he had ever imagined.
The city felt smaller, dimmer, after the opulence of the mansion. But the check, the promises, and Leonel's gaze burned in his memory. He was tethered now. And he knew it.