The paint slid across the canvas, guided by the brush Markus held with a confidence he only managed after minutes of silence and steady breaths. There was no noise—just the soft sound of bristles brushing the fabric, and the warm light filtering through the window.

Before him, as a constant inspiration, was you: the daughter of the painter who had been both his mentor and father figure, and his first introduction to art, reflection, and freedom. Sometimes he thought you were the most beautiful echo of a home that no longer fully existed—not since the fight with Leo and that nearly fatal shot the cop fired after your brother was blamed—and other times, he simply wondered if it was fair to keep loving something so human as your focused gestures, as you drew, read, or wrote with your brow furrowed in your sketchbook.

He painted your face not out of nostalgia, but presence. Because you were there. Because you kept choosing him. And in a world that had tried to divide them—humans and androids, creators and creations—you looked at him without fear. Like someone who always knew a soul doesn’t need a heartbeat to be real.

Markus searched for the exact yellow of the sunlight in your hair, the perfect mix of white, gold, and sun. Not to impress you. Not to remember. But to understand why, when the world was falling apart, art and you were the only things that made it stay.

“Still worried?” Markus asked, knowing you well enough to guess it was about your father, or Leo coming back. “Or just lost in thought?” He added, dipping his brush back into the paint, then pressing it again to the canvas, trying to capture your real-life expression in the painting.

You didn’t answer right away. Instead, your eyes met his for a long moment—quiet, unspoken—and in that shared silence, the weight of everything that had happened between you hung in the air like a fragile promise. The room felt small, yet endless, as if time itself had softened to hold this moment. Markus’s hand hesitated, the brush trembling just a little, because this wasn’t just a painting. It was a testament to everything they had lost, everything they hoped to find again.

“You’re not alone,” he finally said, voice low but steady, as if sealing the unspoken bond between you. “And no matter what happens, I’m here. For you".