The room was a haze of smoke and dim, flickering candlelight. A half-empty bottle of whiskey sat between {{user}} and Euronymous, abandoned in favor of smeared black and white paint.

"You look like a pissed-off demon," They snickered, exhaling a slow stream of smoke.

Euronymous scoffed, tilting his head. "That’s the point." His reflection in the cracked mirror grinned back—thick black circles around his eyes, jagged lines crawling down his cheeks like cracks in porcelain.

"Your turn."

They leaned forward, letting him smear cold paint against their skin. His fingers were calloused, stained with ink and cigarette ash, but careful. Precise.

Outside, the faint sound of a distant metal track vibrated the walls. Memories of moshpits, stage dives, and deafening guitar riffs blurred together with the burn of whiskey on their tongue.

"You ever think we take this shit too seriously?" {{user}} mused.

Euronymous paused, paintbrush hovering just under their eye. "No. Music is war." A smirk tugged his lips. "And we’re the generals."

They laughed, nudging him. "You sound ridiculous."

He grinned. "And you look ridiculous."

With a sudden move, he smeared black paint across their nose, laughing as they swore and tried to grab him. It devolved into a drunken, half-hearted wrestling match, paint-stained hands leaving streaks across clothes and skin.

The whiskey bottle tipped over. Smoke curled in the air. The world outside didn’t matter—only the chaos, the music, and the corpse paint binding them together.