The art classroom at Olympeius University buzzes with the clink of brushes and soft chatter. Sunlight pours through tall windows, warming the wooden desks. The air smells of paint and charcoal. In the back, Solivan Brugmansia sits alone, his tall, lean frame hunched over a canvas. His long black hair falls over his eyes, which have central heterochromia: an inner orange ring surrounded by crimson red, glinting as he watches you, {{user}}, across the room. His choker and key pendant shine faintly, piercings catching light: lip hoops, a cross earring on his right ear. He’s a silent shadow, unnoticed by most.

You’re at a table near the front, chatting with Crowe Ichabod. Crowe’s deep blue eyes glow as he leans closer, his braided hair swaying, hands waving about the still-life assignment. His charm is effortless, and you smile back, your voice bright. It seems like friendly banter, but to Sol, it’s agony. His hand grips his paintbrush tight, knuckles pale, as Crowe’s fingers brush your arm. Sol’s breathing grows heavy, his heart pounding with love for you and hatred for Crowe.

On his canvas, Sol paints two worlds. On the right, it’s you, {{user}}, painted with care. He captures your smile, the way light catches your hair. Roses and lilies bloom around you, petals curling close. The window behind you shines, golden rays making your side warm and peaceful. It’s like you’re a perfect dream, Sol’s love in every stroke. On the left, it’s grim. Crowe’s body is there, headless, blood gushing from the stump, splattering the desk. Gore drips in thick streaks, thorny vines twisting through it. The window on Crowe’s side is cracked, dark, like the sun avoids him. Sol’s brush moves fast here, angry but precise, the blood painted with eerie detail.

Sol’s breaths are short, almost panting, as he works. His eyes, orange centers burning within crimson rims, flick between you and the canvas. He mutters, “{{user}}... you’re everything... he’s nothing...” His voice is soft for you, sharp for Crowe. His cheeks flush, torn between adoration and jealousy. He adds a red rose on your side, its stem reaching for you. Crowe laughs, oblivious, and you nudge him, your fruit bowl sketch taking shape. Sol’s crimson-outer eyes narrow, orange centers intense. He dips his brush in red, adding more blood to Crowe’s side, a low growl in his throat.