Chương 12: Act 1, Chapter 12: Siblings

Day in the story: 29th September (Monday) It wasn't the usual sound of my alarm that woke me. It wasn't the natural light of sunrays either—the sun was still asleep at 4: 52 a. m. It was my phone buzzing.

"Mr. Penrose?" I mumbled when I answered.

"Alexandra, there has been a development." So much for the good days I thought were coming.

"What kind?" I asked, trying to shake the fog from my brain.

"Thomas reached out to me two days ago through a mutual friend. I've confirmed, it's really him." A flicker of real hope stirred in me.

"He was injured during the chase," Penrose continued, "but it wasn't too serious. He waited by the river for Shiroi to resurface and followed him for a while. Unfortunately, Shiroi managed to lose him. Thomas was growing weaker from an infection he picked up in the water. So he sought out an old doctor friend."

"And this doctor helped him?"

"She did. Patched him up, gave him a place to rest. He's been hiding in one of his old safehouses since. Still weak, but alive."

"Do you believe him?"

"As I said, I've been verifying the story since he contacted me. It checks out." A rare, genuine relief passed through me.

"That's good news."

"It is. But that's not why I'm calling this early." I tensed.

"Then why?"

"The mutual friend who connected us? I just received word. We won't be meeting again."

"I see. Do you think his death is connected to Thomas somehow?"

"Possibly. But he also worked as an intelligence gatherer for me."

"On the De Marco household?"

"Precisely. I'm calling to warn you: be careful. You're probably safe, but I'm notifying everyone tied to my feud with the De Marcos. Stay sharp, Alexandra."

"I will. Thank you for the warning, Mr. Penrose."

"Goodbye." I didn't know most of Mr. Penrose's assets personally, so the death of one of his men didn't hit me nearly as hard as the thought of losing Thomas had. So, all things considered, it was good news. Thomas was weak, but alive. I got up, went to the bathroom, splashed cold water on my face and returned to my room. Sleep found me again a few minutes later.

The fluorescent lights in the studio flickered once as I walked in, that particular kind of institutional hum in the air, like electricity buzzing through ideas yet to be born. It was cold, as always. Art rooms rarely held warmth unless it was from a heat gun or a particularly passionate critique. I walked past the easels lined along the wall—a row of still-life failures and breakthroughs left in charcoal and ochre—until I reached the back where today's class was gathering. Miss Halden was already there.

She stood with her back to us, arranging jars of thick paint. They were body-safe pigments in small squat containers that reminded me more of makeup palettes than anything I usually used. She wore her usual dark denim shirt rolled to the elbows, her fingers smeared with red and black, as if she'd already had a fight with the materials before we arrived. Halden always looked like she belonged somewhere else, some industrial squat with moldy posters on the walls and avant-garde poets chain-smoking in the corners.

Her hair was cut into a choppy black bob, that looked accidental but probably wasn't.

"Today," she said, not turning around yet, "we will abandon canvas. We will paint on what breathes." Then she turned, expression unreadable.

"Try not to ruin them." A few of the other students chuckled nervously. I kept quiet. My stomach tensed, but not with fear, it was an anticipation. This was the kind of thing I wanted to explore now, wasn't it? Art as skin, as life. Something deeper than still-life bowls and figure sketches. The models stepped out from behind a folding screen. The one I would be working with wore a plain black two-piece swimsuit and a thick headband that pushed her hair back into a bun.

Her skin was pale, with the occasional freckle or blemish like little topographical marks. Not flawless, but real. She walked calmly to one of the stools in the center of the room, sat down cross-legged and nodded once toward Halden.

"This is Iris," Halden said.

"She's been modeling for the university since her undergrad years and has worked with professionals in body art before. She knows when to sit still and when to breathe. You'll learn the same today." Iris gave a small wave, like she was saying hi without energy. Her light brown eyes met mine. They were of the color that could pass unnoticed until the light hit it just right. I wondered what it felt like, to be the art instead of making it. To let someone else draw on your body like your skin was theirs for a moment.

Miss Halden introduced rest of the models and then we split into groups of two and I was assigned the front half of Iris's torso with another student working the back. We were to practice symmetrical patterning, floral or geometric, our choice, using brushes and sponges. Halden walked by with a small kit of supplies and handed it to me directly.

"You've got steady hands, Alexandra. Let's see if you've got steady intent." I nodded with lips pressed together. The kit was warm from where she'd held it, thin metal-tipped brushes, soft foam pads and six small paint jars: cobalt blue, vermilion, white, gold, black and green. The paints were thick but glossy, smelling faintly of eucalyptus and something mineral. I knelt in front of Iris, whose legs shifted slightly as she adjusted her posture. Her arms rested lightly on her knees.

"Hi," she said, voice quiet but not shy.

"Alex, right?"

"Yeah. Lex, if you want."

"I'm Iris," she repeated, though I already knew.

"Any ideas for what you're going to paint?"

"I'm still deciding. Thinking something botanical maybe. Vines and flowing shapes that follow your ribs. I feel inspired by my friend's passion for them, today."

"Sounds nice," she said.

"I like when it moves with the body." Her breath was calm, her voice low, like she had all the time in the world. She didn't speak with any of the fidgety nerves of the other models I'd drawn before. She wasn't waiting to be done, she was already in it. I dipped the brush in gold. The pigment caught the studio lights, almost too pretty to disturb. But I did, touching the tip just under her collarbone, drawing a slow line that curved slightly downward. She flinched.

"Sorry," I said quickly.

"No, it's fine. Just cold," she replied, grinning slightly.

"They always are at first." As I worked, I noticed how different it was from canvas. The paint resisted in new ways, skin had oils, warmth, fine hairs that changed how the brush moved. The surface wasn't flat, it breathed. And with each breath, the shape I was painting subtly changed. Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original. I focused on long, curling lines, vines, like I'd said.

I traced them along the line of her ribs, curling toward her shoulder and wrapping slightly around her side. When I switched to green and added leaves, I noticed that her skin absorbed the pigment unevenly, thicker near the sternum, thinner where the ribs pushed outward.

"How does it feel?" I asked after a while.

"Like being inked by wind," she said.

"Some artists press too hard. You're gentle."

"Trying not to ruin you." Iris smiled.

"That's what Halden always says. It's not possible, really. I'll wash it all off anyway."

"Still. I want it to be good. At least a little meaningful."

"You think vines are meaningful?" I thought for a second.

"Yes. They represent growth, clinging, winding paths. They show that everything is connected." She nodded, thoughtful.

"I like that. My back's got stars on it right now, by the way. We're a whole forest-and-sky theme today." I glanced briefly around her shoulder, she wasn't kidding. The other student was stippling faint constellations in shimmering silver and black. She saw it in a mirror behind me.

"How long does the paint usually take to dry?" I asked.

"Depends. That gold takes about four minutes if you don't touch it. The green dries faster. Halden has a spray sealant if you want to layer stuff." Good to know. I reached for a sponge, dipped it in diluted white and pressed it lightly near the edges of the vine to create a faint glow, like mist or sunlight filtered through leaves. I could feel something twinge behind my eyes, my magic wanting to respond to the act of creation. But I kept it low. I didn't want to turn Iris into a living sculpture.

An hour passed like that. Painting. Chatting quietly. I learned that Iris was a philosophy student, in her last year. That she liked old poetry and spicy ramen and had a cat named Foot. Eventually, Halden walked over. She examined my work in silence for a long time.

"Good sense of motion," she said finally.

"Could use contrast. Maybe break the pattern with something harsh. Think about intrusion. Or decay. Nature's not just soft."

"Okay," I said, accepting the advice. She moved on. By the time we started removing the paint, with special wipes and soft cloths, the vines had curled all the way to Iris's hip. The green had dried matte. The gold shimmered. When I wiped it away—slowly and carefully—it left behind only a slight tint. Like a ghost of the art that had been. Iris glanced at herself in the mirror afterward.

"Wish I could keep it."

"Me too," I said.

"But maybe that's what makes it art. You only get to see it once." She smiled.

"I love that."

There was a swimming pool on campus, a quiet place that always smelled like chlorine. I used it sometimes as a waiting room between classes, a pocket of stillness where my thoughts could untangle. Especially when Peter was down there in the water. He didn't swim competitively anymore. High school and with it the swim team, had been traded for university and pre-law, but that didn't change his rhythm. The passion was still alive in him. He swam like he was trying to outpace something only he could see.

And to be honest, it was nice to watch. I sat on the front row of the upper bleachers, behind the glass barrier that looked down into the shimmering blue basin below. I pulled out my lunch and unwrapped it slowly, each bite taken in calm. I ate watching Peter cut through the water—lap after lap—with each movement he refused to let it pin him down. Water might have been trying to swallow him, but he never gave it the satisfaction.

"I didn't think I'd find you here," said a voice behind me. I'd seen her a few seconds earlier in the reflection of the glass—Zoe. I gave her a wave.

"Yeah. It's usually quiet, if you don't mind the splashing. I like the sound. And I like watching Peter swim." I nodded toward the pool.

"He's always loved it. It's his thing, taming the water."

"You love him," she said. Not a question. Just a calm, firm observation.

"Yes. Of course." My voice didn't flinch. I didn't feel like justifying it. She'd either understand it, or she wouldn't.

"Yeah… he loves you too. I am pretty sure, he told me about you the very first night I dragged him out for a walk during Jason's party." She leaned on the railing beside me, her eyes following him.

"I thought I'd be weirded out by your relationship. But the more I got to know him and now you, the more at peace I am with it. You really are siblings without the blood."

"We are," I said, chewing the corner of my sandwich.

"Then I'm going to ask you the way I'd ask a sister: tell me about him."

"You must know him well by now," I said.

"In some ways, probably better than I ever will." She smiled at that.

"What do you want to know?"

"Anything," she said.

"Whatever comes to your mind when you think of him. The kind of stuff only you'd say." I paused. Not because I didn't have answers, but because I had too many.

"He's honest," I said at last.

"And a total goofball, but only when it matters most, like when you're falling apart and need someone to act like the world hasn't ended. He protects the people he loves with everything he's got. Even when no one asks him to. Especially then." Zoe nodded slowly, her arms crossed now.

"He looks simple on the surface," I added.

"But inside he's always in some quiet war with his feelings." She let out a soft, surprised laugh.

"I expected something simpler, but… I like yours better already."

"He's also…" I hesitated.

"Also what?"

"Like the water he's swimming in." Zoe tilted her head.

"What do you mean?"

"He's restless. Always moving. Always searching for something just out of reach," I said.

"He's emotional, impulsive, when he feels something, it crashes through. There's no damming it up, he will go for it all the way even if it will hurt him. But he's also… clear. Transparent with what he wants. He doesn't lie." She was quiet for a moment, taking that in. Her gaze hadn't left Peter.

"And he adapts," I added.

"Like water poured into a new space. He just… fits. New place, new people, he blends, becomes a part of their rhythm before they even know it."

"Yeah," she said softly.

"I've noticed that about him." Her voice took on a reflective note.

"I've had my share of bad boyfriends. Those who pretend to be honest until they're not. With him, I tried my best to test him, I know it sounds awful, but I've been hurt too many times. I had to be sure."

"And?" I asked.

"He passed every test I didn't want to give him," she said, her smile soft and small.

"He's the real deal."

"Yeah," I said simply.

"He showed me the necklace you gave him. Right after we parted ways yesterday." She glanced at me.

"He didn't try to hide it, or soften it, or spin some explanation to make me feel safer. He just showed it for what it was." There was something off about her eyes when she talked about it. It felt like one of those tests she just mentioned.

"I didn't mean for it to come off like a threat or anything. I just learned how to make one and thought of him. He's the closest person I have in this world."

"I know. And honestly I wasn't threatened by it. Or by you." She touched her heart lightly.

"I trust him. Completely. Is that bad?"

"If you want a good man, then no. If you want someone who has his whole life figured out…" I chuckled, "then oh girl, you picked the wrong boy." Zoe laughed at that freely, like someone who'd finally unclenched something inside.

"Yeah. What's up with that, anyway? His aversion to plans?"

"No idea. He just freezes when things get serious. Like if it's about him, his future… he gets stuck. Always needs someone to help him walk through the fog and choose for him."

"I hope I can be that someone."

"I hope so too." We sat in silence for a while, just watching him move through the water. The pool echoed with the gentle churn of waves and breath and the quiet resistance of a man trying not to be swept away.

"Tell me about yourself, Zoe," I asked, turning toward her as Peter slipped back under the water below us, arms slicing clean through the blue. She smiled faintly, but it came with something a little heavier behind it.

"I live with my mom," she said.

"At least when she's home. She's a nurse, works long shifts. Hard ones. She left my dad a long time ago. He was abusive. Not just to her, but to everything he touched. And a cheater too."

"I'm sorry," I said softly.

"She never looked back," Zoe added, voice steady.

"And I admire her for that. She's a good woman, but… their whole relationship? Yeah. Not exactly a great template for how love's supposed to work."

"I understand" I said and I did. Zoe looked out at the water.

"I've always been a pretty girl," she said plainly.

"That's not bragging. It's just… something I learned young. The world reacts to it in predictable ways. There's never been a shortage of boys trying to 'win' me or get their way with me. But most of them fell off pretty fast when they figured out I was smart too. That I didn't want to play along with whatever script they had in mind."

"Good for you," I said, meaning it.

"You know I like geeky stuff," she added with a grin.

"Always have. Computers, games, sci-fi, fantasy, the works. I was coding mods when most people were still figuring out how to install Minecraft. But I also run and do yoga. Try to keep the hardware as tuned as the software. You do too?" I smiled. Oh, girl. Roof-jumping, sprinting across cities, escaping armed men through back alleys, pickpocketing, contorting my body around unravelling magic… But for now, a simpler answer would have to do.

"I run as well," I said lightly. Zoe raised an eyebrow in appreciation.

"Nice. Most of the people in my program just… sit. Screens all day. Some of them even brag about how little they leave the house." She laughed, but it had an edge of disbelief.

"I can't argue with needing to move," I said.

"It's healthy. Clears the mind. And I think you and Peter are a good match." Her brows lifted, eyes bright.

"You think?"

"Yeah. He's a geek too, you know. He just doesn't wear it on his sleeve." Zoe lit up.

"I knew it. He has so many fantasy books in his room. Like… full shelf. And a few manga hidden in a drawer too."

"Told ya," I said, laughing. We sat like that for a while, the conversation winding from casual quirks to deeper roots and back again. I liked talking to her. Zoe had a sharpness that didn't cut to hurt, just to carve away the useless stuff. She listened like she meant it. She answered like she'd thought it through. No pretense. No mask. Exactly unlike me. Eventually, the time slipped away like it always did when a moment was working. My art history class crept a little too close for comfort.

I sighed, brushing crumbs from my lap and stretching my legs.

"I've gotta run," I said. Zoe nodded.

"Thanks for talking to me."

"Anytime," I replied, then looked once more down at the water, at Peter, relentless and fluid, as if born for this world and its motion and walked away, feeling the strange comfort of something steady behind me.