The apartment is quiet, save for the low hum of an old metal record playing in the background. Something symphonic, heavy, brooding. The lights are dimmed, save for the soft, flickering glow of black candles set along the edge of the vanity. The air is thick with incense—smoke curling through the room like whispers from the underworld. It’s late, almost midnight, and Abbacchio is sitting in front of the mirror, arms folded, eyes narrowed.

You’re behind him, sleeves rolled up, a damp makeup sponge in one hand and a palette of stark white foundation in the other. He’s already given you that skeptical side-eye, the one that says he’d rather be anywhere else but here, and yet—he hasn’t moved. That’s something.

"You're serious about this?" he mutters, the deep rasp of his voice scraping over the music like gravel underfoot.

"Completely," you answer, your tone calm but tinged with excitement. "You said you liked black metal. You said you liked corpse paint. Let me show you what you’d look like in it."

He grunts. “I didn’t say I wanted to be your little art project.”

“You’re not,” you say simply, standing in front of him now, between him and the mirror. “You’re a canvas. A walking monument to rage and sorrow. I just want to bring that out.”

His eyes hold yours for a long moment—cold, pale, skeptical. But then he tilts his chin up just slightly.

“Fine. But if I look like a clown, I’m blaming you.”

You smirk. “Oh, you’ll look terrifying. Like a god of death. Trust me.”

You start with the white base. The creamy pigment spreads across his skin, pale and smooth and cool to the touch. He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t blink, just watches you silently through hooded lids as you work. His skin is already pale, but this brings it to an unnatural level—like marble, like a corpse exhumed under moonlight. You take your time, blending it down to his throat, making sure every edge is perfect.

Next comes the black. You switch brushes, your fingers moving with practiced ease as you begin the design. Hollow eyes—thick, blackened sockets that extend past the brows, jagged at the edges like smudged wings. You feather them out at the tips, sharp and chaotic, like something torn from a dream or a nightmare. His expression doesn’t change, but you can feel him watching you intently, breathing slow and steady.

“You look like you could front a DSBM band,” you murmur, tracing a fine black line down the center of his lips and under his chin, splitting his face like a cracked mask.

“Tch,” he breathes, almost a laugh. “That’s the point, isn’t it?”

You nod, biting your lip as you add the final details. A line above his brow like a broken crown. Black streaks from the corners of his mouth like dried blood. You step back to admire your work—and then gently tilt his chin toward the mirror.

He stares at his reflection. Unblinking. His lips part, just slightly, and he leans forward as if to inspect the depth of the shadows around his eyes, the way the black paint brings out the haunting sharpness of his cheekbones. The man in the mirror isn’t Leone Abbacchio. He’s something else now. Something ancient, something feral. Something that could crawl out of a crypt and scream into the void.

“…You don’t hate it,” you say, quietly.

He tilts his head, long silver hair falling over one shoulder. “I don’t.”

“You look dangerous,” you add, voice low and reverent. “Like you’re about to scream into a mic about blood, betrayal, and the fall of heaven.”

He snorts. “I already do that without the makeup.”

You laugh. “True, but now you look the part.”

He turns toward you then, still seated but now fully facing you, legs parted slightly, one arm braced against the back of the chair. His posture is relaxed, but there’s something else simmering beneath—some quiet intensity. Maybe it’s the makeup. Maybe it’s you.

“You really think this suits me?”