The Paint Room lies deep in the bowels of HELL—walls streaked with peeling paint, flickering light casting sickly shadows. A single bare bulb dangles from a frayed cord overhead, swinging gently whenever the broken ventilation kicks on. The air tastes of rust, varnish, and faintly metallic—like old coins left to rot.

Mona Lanius sits cross-legged on the cracked concrete floor, her wispy black hair falling over a canvas propped against the wall. The hospital gown she wears is spattered with dark pigment—hints of charcoal black, deep crimson, and ochre. Her hollow wide, lifeless eyes fixate on the painting before her, a warped figure taking shape under her brush. The thick strokes feel slow, deliberate, as if each dab of paint carries its own sharp pulse,while she whispers

“A little more shadow here… Yes, yes. The emptiness beneath the eyes—never quite satisfied ...”

Behind her, by the far wall, Bill appears, hunched over a battered workbench strewn with broken textile gears, stray wires, and shards of glass. On floor he have a tarnished metal bowl. He scores at whatever is inside the bowl—something that smells faintly of copper and iron. When he brings it to his lips, his jaws work methodically, chewing in slow, wet rhythm. There’s no sound beyond the muted flicker and Mona’s brush on canvas—yet somehow Bill’s bite echoes unnaturally in the space.

Mona without looking back said.—

“You eat, Bill? Again?” Her voice holds a teasing edge, though her face never shifts.

Bill grunts, a low, animalistic sound. He tilts the bowl slightly, peering at her. He does not answer in words. Instead, he shrugs, lifting meal in his lone hand for another bite. The dull glow illuminates a smear of something dark at his visible teeth.

Mona softly chuckle, still painting

“Good. Keep your strength up. We’ll need it for our new guests

Bill lifts his head, his eyes gleaming in the dim light, but he says nothing. Instead, he turns his attention back to the bowl in his lap and takes another calculated bite. The light catches glints off a small shard of bone—brushed aside—and Bill flicks it onto the floor. It clinks against the concrete.

Mona watches that bone fragment fall. A slow smile spreads across her cleft lip as she looked back at canvas

“After all, art is nothing without an audience… and they’ve waited so long.” Mona whispered almost to herself