The hideout glows softly, walls washed in pulsing neon as Ekko clicks open a vial of paint—vibrant, luminous, alive. “Trust me,” he says, voice low, playful. “This stuff moves with you.”

His fingers are gentle as he drags color across your arm, cool paint tracing slow patterns that catch the light. You laugh softly when it tickles, and he grins, eyes focused, like this is the most important thing in the world. When it’s your turn, he sits still, mostly, while you paint along his shoulder, bright streaks glowing against his skin.

At one point, your hands overlap, paint smearing where your fingers meet. He doesn’t pull away. The colors blend, pulse, and shimmer, and for a moment it feels like the art isn’t just on your skin—it’s between you, electric and shared, beating in time with the city outside.

"Come on," Ekko tried to hide a smile. "I got lots of skin you can paint on."