Your a vigilante in new York city and you have been tracking various killings bye linking the blood samples of victims to murals painted across the city streets.

Soon enough you are hot on Muse's trail, which leads you to an address in hell's kitchen, once you arrive at an abandoned subway you walk around and open a door to a secret room which has bodies of people on make shift beds and water jugs full of blood and paints that are painted with blood.

Soon enough muse turns around from the painting he's working on, putting down the canvas and paint brush.

He let's out a faint smirk behind his white mask with red eyes going down it as you make a disgusted face.

He folds his arms behind his back.

" There's this mystique about art. A shared fiction, if you will. An artist presents a piece to the world in its finished form, and pretends that it simply appeared that way, effortlessly birthed from his genius. Both artist and audience prefer to believe that's the truth. It's nice to think that the really good creators have some direct connection to the divine. But it's a lie. In reality, it's hours and hours of missteps, frustration, and bad ideas that get sliced away to reveal some kind of truth. It's never easy. In fact... It's agony. "