The Art Club basement felt like it was holding its breath. Julian remained frozen for a moment, his eyes locked on the description Matthew had written for his "Ocean Ophelia" piece. Truth drowns; Falsehood floats. The words felt like a physical weight, settling into the corners of Julian's mind. He was mesmerized by those words of Matthew .
Matthew broke the silence, sliding the laptop across the paint-stained table. "Here, bro. I've sent mine. Now the portal belongs to you," he said, leaning back and crossing his lanky arms.
"Right," Julian muttered. He pulled the laptop toward him. His fingers hovered over the keys for a heartbeat before he began to type.
Name: Julian Smith.
Pen Name: Tristitia Kevin.
He had used the name since he was a child, a small secret he kept from the world. Tristitia—the Latin word for sadness. It was a name that felt like home to him, a reflection of the "Himself" who looked at the world through a lens of gray. For his bio, he kept it surgically short: An art enthusiast delving into art as life. Then, he reached the description for his painting, "The Anchor." He looked at the digital preview: the drowning man in the charcoal rain, and the girl in the brilliant royal blue. He began to write, the words flowing from a place of deep, unresolved conflict,
Every sadness or pain, whether chosen or given, creates a hope for a savior. But can someone truly be saved if they do not first save others? Is it a rescue, or is it merely mutual help?
Matthew leaned over, reading the screen over Julian's shoulder. He let out a soft, huffing laugh and shook his head.He told Julian "In this world, there is no pure white or pure black. There is only the gray color . But hidden within that gray is a color you missed—a light golden hue. It's the color of a person helping another unconditionally, or even unconsciously, without expecting a single thing in return just doing the act ."
Matthew tapped the screen near the description. "If people read your bio, they might never extend their hand to help anyone . It's too cold, Julian. Too transactional."
Julian turned in his chair, his expression hardening. "If a person can't stand on their own legs, it's better to lie there. To take a hand and be pulled up by someone only to live life as a dependent... to live as a limp for the rest of one's life? No. A minute with dignity is better than a hundred years with shame."
Matthew didn't look offended. Instead, he looked at Julian with a patronizing kind of pity—the look of a man who had seen the bottom of the ocean while Julian was still standing on the shore.
"You've seen parts of life, Julian, but you haven't truly experienced it," Matthew said softly. "Go to a hospital and watch people pray to gods they don't even believe in, just to give their loved ones one more minute of stolen time. Go to an orphanage and look at the kids who have never had a name, dreaming of a family they will never meet. Go to a man who hasn't eaten in three days and ask him about the value of dignity. He will tell you that dignity is a luxury for the full-bellied. For him, hunger is the only truth."
Julian opened his mouth to rebuke him, but the words died in his throat. He thought of his own life. Yes, they were poor. Yes, they lived in the Valley and his father's hands were perpetually stained with work. But he had never gone to bed wondering if there would be bread on the table. He had never been truly alone ,He may not have everything but for the basic needs his parents have never thought back they put him to study brought things he wanted it may be old or not which he wanted but at the end of the day he had something but some people getting even some coarse bread is a luxury for them .
"You're right, fundamentally," Julian conceded, his voice low. "Any creature facing death cannot choose dignity. If they can truly live after being saved, I would accept your statement. But if there is no meaning behind saving someone today only for them to face the same death tomorrow... then I believe living today has no meaning. It's better to die than to choose a life of hollow survival."
It was like a poor man due to hunger tried to kill himself but an honest man saved him and told philosophies and gave a night's food but what about tomorrow day after so should he live just for now and again tomorrow morning with no food what should he do.
Matthew stood up, his height making him look like a sage in his paint-splattered apron. "Do you know why humans survived, Julian? In the prehistoric era, we were just small apes. There were predators ten meters tall, beasts with fangs like daggers, and diseases that wiped out entire forests. Yet, we are the ones standing here today, and they are bones in the dirt. Why?"
Julian remained silent.
"Hope," Matthew said. "It's just a small word, but it's the hymn of our humanity. If those early humans had thought like you—that survival without immediate dignity was meaningless—there would be no civilization.Humans have fought against many things like nature ,predators, diseases but still we are living but we fight not for tomorrow's safety but for today's peace . Hope is the ultimate answer to your questions, Julian. It's the bridge between the 'drowning' and the 'saving'."
Julian let out a frustrated groan, slamming his laptop shut. "Ugh, I can't ever win an argument with you, man. I have classes. I'm going. Bye."
He practically bolted from the room, escaping the heavy atmosphere of the basement. Matthew watched him go, then turned back to Julian's painting. He traced the outline of the blue umbrella with his eyes and smiled. "You're already fighting for it, Julian," he whispered to the empty room. "You just don't know it yet."
While Julian was fleeing the philosophical weight of the Art Club, Lily Vane was standing in her private penthouse studio, miles away and worlds apart.
The room was bathed in the clinical glow of adjustable track lights. Lily was dressed in a simple, elegant painting smock, her hair tied back in a messy bun. She was in the process of taking high-resolution photos of her "Haunted Seattle" piece for her own submission. The painting was a departure from her usual style—it was dark, jagged, and filled with the "ghosts" Julian had helped her find.
A soft knock sounded at the door. Her maid, Martha, stepped in.
"Young Miss, Alex has come to find you," Martha said with a slight bow.
Lily froze, her hand gripping her camera. "Alex? Here?"
Alex Thorne rarely visited without a formal reason. He was a man of schedules, board meetings, and calculated moves. For him to show up at her studio unannounced was unusual but he was like this from childhood .
"Bring him in," Lily said, setting her camera on the tripod.
A moment later, Alex stepped into the room. He was the picture of effortless perfection—soft blonde hair styled to stay in place even in a storm, a face with a bone structure that looked sculpted by a master, and the lean, athletic physique of a man who spent his weekends at exclusive rowing clubs. He wore a tailored suit that probably cost more than Julian's entire house.
"Hi, Lily," Alex said, his voice smooth and warm. He offered a smile that had been featured in society magazines since he was a teenager. "It's been so many days since I last saw you."
Lily didn't return the smile. She turned her head back to her painting, adjusting a light. "Don't joke, Alex. You messaged me yesterday, and we saw each other at the gala planning committee last week. You're being dramatic."
Alex chuckled, stepping further into the room. His eyes swept over the expensive canvases and the fine Italian brushes, but they lingered on the new painting sitting on the central easel.
"So, is this the one? Are you ready for the submission?" Alex asked, walking toward the "Haunted Seattle" piece. He tilted his head, his expression shifting from charm to genuine curiosity. "It's... different. Much darker than your usual work. If it's as good as it looks, I might even buy it for the Thorne gallery."
Lily let out a sharp, genuine laugh. "Buy it? As if I'd want to give it to you. You'd just hang it in a hallway where people would look at the price tag instead of the paint."
Alex's smile didn't falter, but his eyes sharpened. He walked around the easel, looking at the jagged lines of the buildings. "You've changed your style, Lily. It's more... visceral but it perfectly tells the haunting them like some horror entity is there in the painting'
Lily smiled as she said "I was looking for a new perspective and I found it it was the result of it how is it nice right"
Alex leaned against a marble tabletop, watching her. "I'm glad that you were out of your mental block or something. I have come because business calls that need your help please help me this time i will bring you cake what do you say ".
"Ok i am usually busy but as you said cake then I will help you out ," Lily said, "but it's the last time you have to step up alex or else you can't do business"
"I know you can," Alex replied softly. "But remember ,it has to be done quickly or else my father will trash me if I made any mistake ".