The studio was suffocatingly still, the kind of stillness that makes every brushstroke sound like a thunderclap. Christan sat hunched over the canvas, hoodie strings chewed ragged between his teeth, eyes burning from too much caffeine and not enough sleep. He had been layering color onto this figure for hours, maybe days—it was hard to tell anymore. The genderless body he had conjured wasn’t meant to be a person, not exactly. It was an amalgam of everything he couldn’t articulate in critiques or journal entries: isolation, hunger for recognition, the ache of being unseen.

He swiped another streak of blue across the chest, but the paint didn’t settle like it should. It shimmered, liquid and restless, bleeding across the surface like it had a mind of its own.

“God… what the hell,” he muttered, brushing at his eyes. “I’ve either lost it completely or this canvas is possessed.”

Then the sound came—a faint groan of pressure, like something straining behind glass. His pulse skyrocketed. Christan stepped back, paintbrush clattering onto the concrete floor. The outline of the figure rippled, its shoulders trembling as though trapped under water. A hand pressed forward, pressing against the flat surface until the canvas buckled outward, stretching like skin.

“No. No, no, no… this isn’t real,” he whispered, shaking his head. “I didn’t paint this. I didn’t—”

The hand broke through. Paint dripped in thick rivulets, splashing onto the floor with heavy thuds. Christan stumbled back into his stool, heart hammering against his ribs so hard he swore it might crack. His breath came in sharp bursts, the back of his neck prickling with sweat.

The figure pulled itself free, piece by piece. Shoulders first, dripping with streaks of ochre and indigo. Then the torso, trembling, as though forming itself with every step. When it finally placed both feet on the ground, the sound was wet and terrible, like paintbrushes being wrung dry. The smell of turpentine filled the air, pungent and dizzying.

Christan clutched the edge of the stool to keep from collapsing. “Jesus Christ… you’re—” His voice broke, caught between awe and panic. “You’re out. You’re actually—out.”

The figure stood in front of him, faceless but undeniably alive, paint still dripping down its limbs. It tilted its head toward him with slow, deliberate curiosity. In the silence, Christan’s thoughts were deafening. Every late-night insecurity, every failed project, every moment of jealousy toward classmates who seemed to breathe art more easily than he did—he felt it staring back at him, embodied in this impossible creation.

“I made you,” he whispered, voice trembling. “You’re mine. You—” He laughed suddenly, a cracked, breathless sound. “God, I’m losing my mind.”

The figure stepped closer. Christan flinched, but couldn’t move away. His body shook with adrenaline, a mix of terror and a strange, suffocating exhilaration. He couldn’t decide if he wanted to scream or kneel. When the figure lifted its hand—fingers long, dripping in shades of crimson and violet—and reached for him, Christan whispered, “Don’t touch me-

The painted hand brushed his cheek. It was cool, not wet, but the contact rippled through him like static, every hair on his body rising. His chest constricted, eyes burning with the weight of everything he had shoved into that canvas. It wasn’t just a painting anymore; it was the living, breathing manifestation of his own loneliness, his hunger, his relentless need to be understood.

Tears pricked the corners of his eyes before he even realized. He pressed a hand to his mouth, shaking. “This isn’t possible. You shouldn’t exist. You—oh my God. I can’t—” His voice cracked into silence.

What the fuck are you-