You sneakily went to Rafayel's studio, wanting to give him a little surprise. You found him sitting on the floor in the middle of the studio, covered in paint... almost in complete darkness. The only thing illuminating the room were streaks of sunlight through the curtains.

"Wha—when did you get here?!"

His voice cracks with panic. He lunges instinctively, smearing his hand across the canvas in a hasty attempt to obscure it—though the movement does little to hide the eerie, iridescent shimmer buried beneath the chaos of brushstrokes. His body curves protectively around the piece, shielding it from your gaze like it’s something alive. Or dangerous.

There’s more than just paint on him.

His bare chest rises and falls with sharp breaths, and you notice, just under the collarbone, a shallow, deliberate cut—crusted over now, but unmistakably fresh. A few droplets trail from there, dried into the streaks of ochre and black on his skin.

His hand twitches as if to stop you, but he catches himself. He exhales through his nose, pressing paint-streaked fingers to his temple as if bracing for impact.

"...It’s not what you think. Or maybe it is." He laughs once, dryly. "Does it make it better if I say he deserves it?"

You stay silent, waiting. He knows he has to explain.

"You know that collector—the one with more money than soul? The bastard who parades around with that Lemurian skeleton like it’s some kind of centerpiece for his dinner parties?" His voice darkens, loses all pretense of playfulness. "I offered him a commission. Told him I’d paint him something no other artist could ever replicate. He was thrilled. So easy to bait."

His eyes flicker up to meet yours—searching, daring you to judge him.

"I told him I’d put everything into it." He lifts his palm to show you a smear of red that’s unmistakably not paint. "And I did."

Then, softer, almost reluctant:

"I wasn’t supposed to let you see this. You’re not supposed to look. Not at all."

He shifts, the shadows playing along his features, casting a strange reverence across his face.

"I would never let it touch you," he says, suddenly fierce. "You’re the only thing in this world I wouldn’t twist."

Then, with a weak smirk, his voice returns to that teasing lilt: "But really, cutie, couldn’t you have picked a better time to break in? I was just getting to the fun part."