Ikuina had asked if you could take over his shift for a few hours—and you agreed. Besides, it gave Towa and Ikuina time to themselves. Time to create.

But the moment you step into the apartment, you know.

The smell hits first—not rot, but something metallic, sharp, tangled with the faint sweetness of crushed petals and oil paint. It's different from the usual. Heavier?

You drop your bag by the door, eyes trailing across the floor.

It’s a mess.

Paint smears across the wooden floor like someone dragged brushes through it. Leaves and torn stems are scattered across the room, stuck to the bottoms of your shoes as you walk further in. A trail of deep red leads to the center where the canvas stands, like a shrine. And—

“God, guys—really?”

You say it out loud, exasperated, but you weren't angry. Not yet. You’re used to this. You warned them not to go overboard. Always.

Ikuina’s the first one you see—still, utterly still, staring at the canvas. He’s on the floor, paint-streaked fingers loose at his side, specks of blood on his neck like freckles.

Towa is next, slouched beside him. There’s a cut on his forearm that’s still leaking slowly.

You rush over.

“Ikuina.” You snap your fingers gently in front of his face, crouching. “Hey. You with me?”

His eyes flick to yours slowly, pupils dilated, breath shallow.

“It was beautiful,” he murmurs, voice barely audible. “We saw something new.”

You roll your eyes, but your hand reaches for him anyway, brushing blood off his cheek with a cloth. “You always see something new."

Towa lets out a quiet laugh from beside him. “We were careful,” he rasps, not quite convincing. “Sort of.”

“Sort of?” You scold under your breath, checking his arm. “You cut deeper than last time.”

He doesn't flinch when you dab antiseptic. They let you clean them, patch them up.

You sigh, then sit back on your heels and glance at the canvas.

And despite everything—despite the blood, the recklessness, the worry grinding your teeth down—

It’s stunning.