Chương 3: Act 1, Chapter 3: My darker artistic side

Day in the story: 10th September (Wednesday) I met with Sophie in the campus's main yard during our next break. This place was a social beehive nestled between the University buildings. Plentiful benches and tables rested under the watchful shade of tall trees, their leafy arms offering shelter from the ever-raging sun. At the center stood a fountain, its streams shooting skyward, as if trying to return the water it once took. Around it, students sat, ate and chatted. Some lounged lazily in the grass.

A group of boys threw a ball in the background. It was a retreat for the tormented souls of academia and a gathering ground for friends. Sophie was at one of the tables with Elena and Hannah. All three studied Business and Management, as if the world needed any more of either. But they were an interesting bunch. Elena was a small but compact Latina girl with a rom-com addiction; she knew every hit show by heart.

Depending on who asked and how dreamy the situation, she either secretly or quite openly admitted to wanting a love story just like the ones she binge-watched. Hannah, on the other hand, was all business—fitting, given her field. A future CEO with chocolate brown skin and casual but well-fitting clothes. Despite their differences, the three of them shared not just a table, but a loyal and longstanding friendship. I dropped my bag beside the bench and sniffed the air.

"Do I smell chai, or am I just imagining things?" I asked, hopefully. Sophie slid a paper cup across the table without saying anything. She didn't have to. The look she gave me said obviously, yes. I took a careful sip. Sweet, but not too much.

"Elena brought tea," Sophie said.

"She stopped by that little place near the library."

"Masala chai, extra cinnamon," Elena said, pushing her sunglasses up into her hair.

"This is honestly the nicest thing that's happened to me all day," I said, letting the heat settle into my hands.

"That's not a high bar," Hannah said, not looking up from her tablet.

"No, but it still counts," I said. Elena looked over at me.

"You doing okay?" I hesitated.

"Long night. Didn't sleep much. I'll be fine."

"We were talking about my career as an actress," Elena whispered—just loud enough for everyone to hear, though we had to lean in for it.

"Your what?" I asked, startled.

"My father—may he rest in peace," she said, making the sign of the cross, "told me I should have been an actress. I keep wondering if he was right all along."

"You only wonder about it when you fail your exams," Hannah countered. They all laughed. A breeze caught a few napkins, sending them fluttering like lazy birds across the stone path. The fountain behind us kept spraying water high into the air, straining for grandeur while pigeons strutted around as if they owned the place.

"On the subject of actors—I met a dreamy-looking Korean guy, like the one from the shows you love," Hannah said.

"Oh," Elena sighed.

"What I wouldn't give to meet someone like that."

"He was good-looking with an intense gaze—like seriously. It made me shiver. But also a little strange. He said he cared for the dead at some cemetery or… a temple? We only spoke briefly as I was too unsettled by all of it and I excused myself."

"Why bring that up?" Sophie asked.

"To tease Elena about her lack of a love life," Hannah replied, "but also to remind you all to enjoy life while you can."

"What?" I asked.

"Did he threaten you or something?"

"No, he told me to remind everyone I care about that life is short. So… consider yourselves reminded." She replied, then tapped her chin twice.

"Now that I think about it, it does sound a little like a threat, right?"

"A bit. Better call campus security or the police," Sophie said, while I laughed at the absurdity of our conversation, because for me this was—calm. No running, no chasing, just four girls talking about nothing that mattered much. I could pretend, just for a little while, that this was the real world.

Painting was held in a wide-open studio space with tall ceilings and splatters of a hundred student attempts on the walls and floors. Paint-stained aprons hung by the entrance like robes of an order that worshipped color instead of gods. The instructor—Miss Halden was the youngest faculty member in the department and looked like she belonged more in an underground art zine than a university catalog. She had a messy black bob, her sleeves were always rolled and her fingers permanently streaked.

She had a dry way of speaking that made criticism feel like philosophy. Today's lesson: "Portraits of the unseen self."

"How you think you look to the world is irrelevant," she said.

"I want what's underneath. Paint your resentment. Paint your hunger. Paint your sleep deprivation if that's what you've got left." Some students rolled their eyes, others got right to work. I sat by the windows, pulled on my apron and let my thoughts pool onto the canvas. I painted a figure split down the center, half of it in cold steel blues, smooth and sharp but alien in its form—something like a spider. The other half in muddy reds and golds, dripping and human. A hand reaching out from one side.

A chain wrapped around the ankle of the other. As I worked, I felt my shoulders ease. Painting was the only time I could stop pretending. That's when the feeling came—the one I sometimes got when I created. It was more than just flow or focus. It began as a slow warmth at my core, spreading through the veins. The sensation crept outward, pooling just beneath my skin and gathering at my fingertips. My hands tingled.

Sometimes, when I was deep in the act of making, when the world slipped away and it was just me and color and meaning, I could almost see it. A mist of light, nearly invisible but not quite. It shimmered faintly over my knuckles, like the full spectrum broken from white light, curling lazily around my palms in rainbow hues. Sometimes it dropped from me and hovered in the air like a spider's silk bathed in morning dew.

I'd blink or look down at it too sharply and it vanished—like it had never been there to begin with. But the after-feeling stayed—something electric and wrong—like catching a whispered word when no one was around. It always left me uneven. Like something inside me was working on a level I didn't understand. Maybe something broken. I never told anyone, not even Peter. He'd think it was stress, or trauma. Maybe it was. Or maybe it was the part of me that came out only when I created, something no name had ever fit.

And this time it also passed as soon as I focused on it. It did not disturb my work, though. Miss Halden walked by my easel, paused, then nodded once before moving on, and that single gesture made me feel validated. By the time the class wrapped, sunlight had shifted to its warm, late-afternoon hue, casting gold over everything like the day had forgiven me for surviving it. My painting was still wet.

I left it on the rack to dry, but the feeling of it, of having said something without speaking, clung to me long after I left the room.

I went to Penrose's Finest right after classes. The gallery sat near the city center, in that part of town where buildings had long ago decided to reach for the sky—glass and steel monoliths clawing at clouds with unapologetic ambition. Down at street level, the city sweated and traffic pulsed through its mechanical arteries. It was a sensory assault of fumes and noise that felt like a punishment for simply existing. If I could dull those senses at will, I would without hesitation.

And yet, even buried beneath the grime and chaos, this part of town had its merits. This was the heart, the place where money changed hands, where power dressed in tailored suits and where the wealthy came to both flaunt and multiply their fortunes. Naturally, this was where Penrose operated, in a side street just off one of the main veins of the city, in a quiet pocket carved out between glass towers and old brick survivors. Penrose's Finest didn't advertise itself loudly.

There were no flashing signs and no gaudy exterior—just a polished black door with brass lettering so subtle a person had to want to find it to see it. I buzzed the intercom. A faint click followed and I pushed the door open into cool, dry air and the scent of varnish, canvas and subtle power. If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

Inside, the gallery was all white walls, dark wood floors and carefully staged spotlights that made every piece of art look like a secret that wasn't supposed to be known. A woman in a navy blouse, Penrose's assistant—Miriam—glanced up from her desk and gave me the barest nod before returning to her laptop. We had an understanding: she pretended I was a regular appraiser and I pretended she didn't know what I really did for Penrose.

"He's in the back," she murmured, not even looking up this time. I passed a massive oil piece that looked like chaos disguised as technique, one of those modern "emotional" canvases that cost enough to buy a small island if the buyer was rich and stupid enough. I preferred the art with actual meaning. Behind a half-closed door at the far end of the gallery, Penrose's voice was already bouncing off the walls.

"And I told him, if he wanted authenticity, he should stop buying from online auctions and start using someone with taste." He was on the phone. I slipped in and he didn't stop talking. Just raised a hand to acknowledge me while pacing behind his antique desk. His office looked more like a gentleman's study than a workspace—leather-bound books, whiskey decanter, a globe he spun just for dramatic effect.

I took a seat in the worn green chair across from his desk, my legs still sore from last night's joyride into chaos. I felt the scratch marks on the side of the wood. They too were creations, just of my long-gone self. He turned to me with eyes sharp and appraising. He wore a three-piece suit—gray today—with a burgundy tie. Not a single wrinkle. The man could be bleeding and he'd still look composed. He was well into his sixties by now, but no one would guess it by looking at him.

At most, he passed for being in his late forties. That's what years of discipline did, he trained both his body and his mind with militant regularity and it showed. Beneath the tailored suits and cultured air, he was still lean and muscular. His face was angular, weathered like the edge of an old coin, crowned with a head full of thick silver hair that matched his eyes—cool, calculating and silver like the money he loved almost as much as the art. He'd started wearing a beard recently too.

It was immaculately trimmed, like everything else in his curated life.

"He's mistaken," he said into his phone.

"Tell him to start using his brain. He might be surprised by the results." From the tone, I gathered Thomas, his other assistant, had bungled something or someone. Thomas was a strange mix of muscle and charisma: a cross between a bodyguard and a salesman. He'd been sent to meet a client, but judging from Penrose's expression, that meeting now required less charm and more force.

"Yes. Do that. Call me when it's done." He ended the call, then turned his full attention to me.

"Alexandra." He always used a full name. He did that with everyone, names were like titles to him. There was only one exception: his late son, Mikey. When he spoke of him, which was rare, he always dropped the formality and softened just slightly.

"When we last spoke," he continued, "you told me you'd be attending the auction on 4th Street. From what I've gathered, it was either a grand plan that went surprisingly well or a small job that turned into complete chaos." He paused, exhaled slowly through his nose.

"So tell me, good girl. Which was it?"

"It was chaos, Mr. Penrose," I said plainly. He finally sat down across from me, steepling his fingers in front of his mouth, resting his beard atop them like a thoughtful perch.

"Oh," he murmured, with that glint of intrigue in his eye.

"Do tell." He adored the craft of stealing, more than the profit, more than the art. For him, the thrill was in the choreography: the planning, the pressure, the improvisation when things fell apart. The act was the art. I got this from him—I loved the challenge more than the loot.

"I was hired through an intermediary, Miss Honey. The one you introduced me to. She wanted me to lift a necklace from the gala. All the intel she gave me checked out but it was missing some very important details." He tilted his head slightly.

"What kind of details?"

"The target was mob-affiliated. FBI and police were on-site." His eyebrow lifted.

"Anything else?"

"The buyer arranged the getaway. The driver and the hired muscle weren't planning on letting me leave alive, unless I left the necklace behind."

"And yet here you are," he said, mildly impressed.

"Show me the item." I reached into the hidden pocket in my jacket and produced the necklace—a silver Chinese dragon coiled protectively around five pearl eggs. He took it with the delicate reverence of a priest holding a relic, inspecting it under the lamp he adjusted just for that purpose.

"I'm guessing Miss Honey didn't tell you who the buyer was?"

"Of course not."

"What was the agreed sum?"

"Two hundred thousand."

"Interesting," he said, turning the piece in his hand.

"This has more personal value than material. The craftsmanship is excellent, but the materials alone wouldn't fetch even ten grand. Sentimental or symbolic, perhaps. I'll contact Honey and handle the transaction myself." He paused again, eyes scanning mine.

"Anything else I should know?" he asked as he plucked a coin from his pocket and rolled it across his knuckles. He was skilled at sleight of hand and often used it to steady his thoughts.

"I might have killed the driver and the muscle." He didn't flinch.

"Understandable." He trusted me to handle myself. After everything we'd been through, anything less would be an insult.

"I have the mask you wanted, the Kabuki one. The rabbit," Penrose said it almost offhandedly as he reached into one of the deep drawers behind his desk. When he handed it to me, my breath caught for a second. It was exactly the one I had described in passing, weeks ago. I'd wanted to make it myself, but time and resources had slipped away from me, as they often did. Somehow, he'd found it instead. It was a beautiful, original Japanese piece, white lacquer, smooth and cool to the touch.

The face was that of a stylized rabbit—flat and expressionless except for a small, delicately sculpted nose. The eye holes were wide and black from the outside, completely transparent from within. The mask was fastened with white leather straps and the upright ears gave it height, character and presence.

"I never asked you for one," I said, still studying it.

"You don't have to make everything yourself," he replied, his tone calm but matter-of-fact.

"I can give you presents from time to time. Last week was your birthday." He wasn't a sentimental man, not by a long shot. But once in a while, he showed his version of care. This was one of those rare moments.

"I'm grateful, Mr. Penrose. I'll put it to good use."

"One of your personas? Jess Hare?"

"No." I shook my head slightly, still holding the mask with both hands.

"Jess is for client-facing gigs. She's human. This…" I looked at the mask again.

"This will just be Usagi. For the times that don't call for a human face at all." He nodded, understanding perfectly. There was no need for further explanation. He knew what it meant to wear a face that didn't blink or smile unless told to do so.

"You have something like that planned already?"

"No," I admitted, "but I'll do a test run tonight."

"Good," he said, then stood and straightened his coat like the conversation was concluding.

"I'll call you after I hear more from Honey." I carefully tucked the mask away.

"Take care, Alexandra."

"And you, Mr. Penrose."

I stopped by home first, just long enough to unpack, eat something warm and change. The light in the apartment had already begun to shift when I left again, painting everything with that soft golden hue that signals the world is winding down… even if I wasn't. Tonight, I wore my Iceberg jeans jacket, slightly worn at the cuffs but still sharp. Underneath, a plain white T-shirt with a smiling cartoon bunny, cute in a way that made people underestimate me.

Comfortable black trousers and my go-to pair of lightweight sneakers finished the look. My hair was loose, tucked under a black baseball cap and a small crossbody bag hung lightly over my shoulder, swaying as I walked. I found my target surprisingly quickly, a commercial billboard crowning one of the last-century residential buildings, looming like an insult over the old bricks and aging windows. It was a middle finger to the people below. Buy the new phone or get left behind.

Be a loser in the great race for the newest thing. I hated that mentality. This unending compulsion to upgrade, replace and consume. People should see the beauty in who they are, not in what they own—or, at the very least, in the pursuit of what seems unattainable. Maybe it was a strange thought for a thief to have, but tonight, I wasn't here to take anything physical. I came to steal urgency and compulsion… and offer something better in return: stillness and reflection.

Once night fell and the city dimmed into anonymity, I climbed up. The billboard loomed above me, lit only by the streetlights below and the faint pulse of the city's glow. I strapped on my mask. The work began with black, a cleansing void. I sprayed out the advertisement in its entirety, wiping it clean of its demand for obedience. Then the vision came to life. From the darkness emerged the Cyclops, my city's sleeping giant—slowly waking from a long digital slumber.

Its spine and limbs were made of buildings, stacked and layered like vertebrae. Roads coiled around its form like living veins. Its face: concrete, steel and glass, with an eye just starting to open. Wires tangled its limbs. Clock faces embedded in its torso. Bits of smartphones and digital debris oozed down its frame in rainbow melt, dissolving. But the light that came wasn't from the usual suspects, not streetlamps, not neon signs. It was sunlight, but not as we know it.

It poured from behind the giant like liquid color, turquoise, magenta, molten gold, seeping into the gray, flooding it with possibility. In cracks along the sidewalks, new life unfurled. Birds took shape in patches of color. Flowers bloomed from fractured walls. Human silhouettes, stitched together from warm ochres, emeralds, ultramarine, danced up from alleyways, breathing a new kind of air. I stepped back and watched it unfold beneath my hands.

The lower half of the image remained subdued, navy, steel, digital blue, still half asleep. But above the awakening had begun. Vivid strokes rippled like waves across the surface. My Cyclops was not rising with rage, but with hope. Satisfied, I walked forward and signed my name in the bottom corner: Usagi. A thousand tiny specks of colored light shimmered across my skin like dust caught in a sunbeam. They danced, sparkled and shifted like a colorful web cast adrift by the wind.

I stared, but this time, they didn't vanish when I focused. The mist surrounded me, warm and humming—as if the creation itself had poured into me and didn't want to leave. I dragged my fingers through the air, leaving behind trails of color, fading like afterimages. It was beautiful, it was real and it was mine. But I wasn't done. I turned back to the painting and looked at the sky I had yet to finish. It needed more. Clouds—but not ordinary ones.

I painted them as symbols: question marks, musical notes and open hands. Let curiosity reign, I thought. Let it overthrow the tyranny of endless wanting. Let those who pass below, even for a moment, feel the urge to wonder and challenge themselves, rather than consume. Let the city and the people who lived here wake up, just a little.

The light around me faded as quietly as it had come, vanishing the moment I stepped back from my finished work. I sat at a corner bar now, a good distance away, where the music pulsed lazily through outdoor speakers. My mask was stashed safely in my bag while I sipped on a Mojito through a straw, its mint sharp against my tongue—cooling the heat still lingering in my chest. People passed unaware, each one doing their own thing. They didn't notice what I'd made for them, not yet, anyway.

They clinked glasses and took selfies and stumbled into taxis with slurred goodbyes. The streets below the billboard still pulsed with traffic and the rhythm was the same as it had always been. And yet… I had changed something. A tiny sliver of this city now carried something else, something born not of profit or noise, but of my own intention. It was only one painting.

Only one solitary person looked up at it, as I sat there—a woman, maybe my age with curly black hair coming down from under a colorful beanie, but in that moment, that was everything I needed.