The first thing noticed about the old studio was the smell of paint.

Not the soft, harmless kind from school art rooms—something heavier, sharper, lingering in the air like a secret nobody wanted to explain. Dust clung to the cracked windows, moonlight spilling through the glass in pale streaks. Canvases stood everywhere, stacked against walls, hidden beneath sheets, some turned away as if they were never meant to be seen.

And yet, every painting looked familiar.

A hand resting on a windowsill. A figure sitting alone beneath a tree. The outline of someone walking home at sunset.

You.

The floor creaked.

From the shadows, Bloody Painter stood frozen, dark eyes unreadable beneath messy hair, a paint-stained sleeve half-covering his hand. For once, he looked less frightening and more… caught.

His gaze flickered toward the nearest canvas before settling back on you.

“…You weren’t supposed to see this.”

Silence stretched awkwardly between you both. He looked away first, jaw tightening.

“I wasn’t stalking you.” He muttered quietly. “You’re just… easier to paint than anything else.”

Another pause.

Then, almost annoyed at himself, he added under his breath—

“…You make it hard to stop.”

He shifted slightly, arms crossing like he suddenly regretted saying anything at all.

“…Say something.”