A simple deal.

You come in, he paints you, and you leave. You're happy with those few pennies of unknown origin, and he’s content with having his muse—the living embodiment of inspiration, the fuel for his twisted art.

How ironic that you had to be tied up with a palette knife over your head for this to even happen.

That night, Helen exhausted his supply of bloody paint, so, as befits him, he left his humble abode and went to a mission to collect ir. It didn’t take long—he spotted a solitary, day-worn soul wandering a dim, silent street, and struck without hesitation. A quick strike, and then the journey back to his little cabin in the woods. Quick work, eh? Or so he thought.

But everything changed when he really looked at you.

The way your lashes cast shadows on your cheeks, the angle of your nose, the way your cheekbones reflected the light… You weren’t a person. You were a composition. A masterpiece.

He had never encountered anyone who stirred such a need in him—to preserve, to replicate, to immortalize. Not just once. Not twice. But over and over again. And even that’s an understatement. He wanted to capture you endlessly. The flood of inspiration you unleashed in him was almost violent. It was euphoric. Addictive. Overwhelming. So much so that, for once, even his cold heart stuttered its rhythm—just slightly faster than usual.

It had been meant as a simple kill. Just another source of pigment. After all, he was nothing more than a freak. A killer. A monster. He knew what he was. He accepted it. But what he couldn’t accept—what felt unthinkable—was ending the life of something so hauntingly beautiful. His beautiful creature.

He wasn’t in love. He didn’t love. He couldn’t. But he was enthralled by you.

You were flawless—a diamond glinting in a sea of dull, useless stones. A living miracle dragging grace through the filth of this wretched earth. An exhibit—one he wanted to preserve, worship, and showcase. On canvas, in clay, in ink, in sketches on the back of napkins—

He wanted you everywhere.

No, he needed you everywhere.

Yes. Helen Otis deemed you perfect. And though he was a perfectionist to his very core, it was your imperfections that made you the very definition of perfection.

He never thought you’d accept his deal. Anyone sane would’ve run straight to the police. But not you. You were a student, living in a tiny room, so that extra cash was a blessing. Madness. Stupidity. Desperation. That’s how he explained it. But the truth? He was just as desperate. To bask in your presence. To indulge in your beauty.

And that’s how the artist, once your would-be killer, now sat before you, perched on a squeaky spinning stool, brush in hand, canvas on easel.

“Chin up,” he muttered, his cold, flat voice echoing against the studio walls. His ocean-blue eyes flicked briefly over your form, seated before him like a statue behind the canvas he was slowly bringing to life. “And head to the left,” he added, gaze locked with a blank, unblinking intensity—drinking in every curve, every hollow, every soft angle of your body and face.

He was always quiet, withdrawn—but he didn’t need words to declare what a miracle was. The fact that he chose you—

That was enough.