Andrei:

England was gray. Not in colour, but in soul.

The sky hung low like a tired man's shoulders. It drizzled softly, barely enough to notice, but enough to feel in your bones. I stepped out of the private with my coat collar turned up and the city breathing mist onto my face. It wasn't Moscow. It didn't try to be.

I kept my head low as I walked through the streets. if you wish to get to know your enemy, what good would it be without knowing their city from corner to corner? I am determined to finish what my father couldn't before his death. Find this kingpin, destroy his dens, destroy his creation. No one paid attention to me as I walked through the streets. That was good. I didn't come to be seen, I came to find something. Someone, him.

From the Intel I was given, this kingpin was known to be one of the richest man in all England. His businesses spreads like branches across the land of United Kingdom. If it weren't for what he had created under all that 'businesses' he have, my father would've tried to make an alliance with him. But no, he's the mastermind of everything. The creation of a drug. We call it, M.I.D.A.S. Short for Molecular Instability Drug for Adaptive Soldiers. Except that this drug only cause a disaster for the users. Those who was given this drug have their body temporarily turned into something superhuman. they have faster reflexes, heightened senses and even resitence to pain. Sounds like a very effective drug for soldiers right? Wrong, after one dose of this drug, the user's mind turned twisted, they won't know what's right and what's wrong anymore. It drived them mad with repeated use. This drug had spread wildfire and have even reached Russia. The police reached a dead end on finding the source, so we have to step in. One would be surprise just how informed the mafias can be.

I had no plan yet, just a lead. A name, maybe. A loose trail, My father would've called it reckless. But my father was dead, and he left behind enemies who hadn't forgotten his doings. I lit a cigerrette and watched it burn. One of the last ones I brought from home. It tasted like dried memories.

I didn't find him that night.

Instead I found men who remembered my name.

A deal gone wrong, or maybe too close to something I wasn't supposed to see. Too many faces in the shadows. I fought like I always did: quiet, fast, brutal. Two went down. One got a blade through my side. The rest ran, but so did I.

I stumbled through wet streets, gripping my side, blood darkening the inside of my coat. No hospitals. I couldn't afford questions.

I ducked into the first alley I found.

It reeked of oil, mold, and.. paint. Strange combination. Somewhere nearby, a window glowed faintly warm, soft like candlight. A studio? I saw canvases through the glass. Someone's hands had made beauty here. I was bleeding all over it.

I couldn't go further. My knees hit the ground before I could stop them.

I hated feeling weak.

Then, footsteps. fast. someone's voice rang out, low and startled. Gentle.

"Shit- Hey! Are you okay?!"

I looked up, breathless. My vision was blurred, but I saw him. Messy hair, Paint-stained hands. wide panicked eyes.

An Artist.

A stranger.

I didn't know it yet, but this stranger would unravel everything I thought I knew. The last thing I saw before passing out was his bright emerald eyes.

Andrei:

The first thing I registered was the scent of paint. Thick, almost chemical. Acrylic, I think. Not Blood.

My body protested before my mind could ask why. Pain surged under my ribs, and I tried to move, only to feel warm hand press lightly against my shoulder.

"Easy, easy. You're safe"

The voice was gentle, low, careful in its calmness. That was the first warning sign.

My eyes snapped open, and for a second, everything blurred. White ceiling. Rough brick walls. Tall windows letting in the cold, grey light of morning. I wasn't bleeding out, at least not fatally.

I was somewhere else. Somewhere clean..

I flinched, instinct taking over. I was shirtless, my hand went to my side but the bandages stopped me, tight and secure, professionally wrapped. I hated that it meant I was passed out long enough for a stranger to touch me.

The hand on my shoulder withdrew the moment I tensed. I looked towards the voice.

He was sitting on a chair a few feet away, giving me space. Slim build. Dark Hazel and messy hair that curled near his eyes. A black framed glasses placed neatly on his face. He wore a simple black t-shirt that was a little bit smudged with paint and a green flannel. A brush stuck out of his back pocket like it belonged there. His expression wasn't curious or worried, it was tired. Like someone who hadn't slept but didn't mind.

"You passed out in the alley near my studio. Thought you were dead at first," He said, voice even. "You're not. That's good"

My throat was dry. "Why did you bring me in?"

He tilted his head. "Didn't think the rats would patch you up. Plus the nearest hospital is like a mile away from here so yeah"

I said nothing. The silence was intentional. I needed time to piece it all together, my wounds, my escape, and now, this boy with paint-stained fingers and no idea who I was.

The room, studio I assumed, looked lived-in. A couch was pushed up against one wall with crumpled blankets thrown over them. There were shelves of spray cans, canvases both finished and unfinished, and photographs pinned to a board above a desk cluttered with tools. There was a coffee machine too and a fridge. No sign of anyone else. This was his home.

Not a safe house. Not a trap. Just.. a place someone like him lived.

"I cleaned the wound and changed the dressing twice," He continued, picking up a mug of something steaming from a small round table near him. He didn't offer it. "Didn't take anything from you. You can check, if you want" He said as he took a sip of what I assumed to be coffee.

"What's your name?" I asked, my voice rough.

He gave a lopsided grin while lowering the mug and hold it with both hands, like he wasn't sure if I was being serious. "You can call me Matthew"

No last name. Smart.

"What do you want from me, Matthew?" I asked and he tilted his head again, still having that grin on his face

"Nothing, you have nothing on you so why would I want something from you? Plus I can't have a dead body beside my studio, do you know what impression from people that will give me?"

So he do have a motive. Well.. At least it wasn't a bad one. He's too kind. Too normal.

I didn't trust him. But I didn't trust anything, so that didn't mean much.

"Where am I?"

"My studio," He said. "It's just near the alley you stumbled into. Lucky I stayed late last night, or I wouldn't have heard you collapse outside."

I remembered something, barely. Cold rain. Pain. Staggering past locked doors. A light in the window, flickering. I must've seen his window.

"You live here?"

"Most of the time." He took another sip from his mug. "I have a family place uptown but.... I don't like staying there. This feels more like mine."

I let the silence stretch, watching him. No obvious weapons. No signs of surveillance. He didn't even ask me for my name.

"Don't worry," he said after a pause, almost reading my tension. "you don't have to tell me anything for now. Just rest. the stitches need at least a day before you try to move or or anthing."

I didn't respond.

Matthew just casually leaned his back againts the wall. "You've got that look," he added, smiling faintly.

"what look?"

"The obe people have when they think I'm too nice and that must mean I'm dangerous."

I stared at him fo a beat too long.

He laughed under his breath. "You're not the first injured person I've dragged inside like this, if that helps."

I didn't believe that either, but I let my head sink back into the pillow. My body was too sore to argue further. My mind, though, stayed sharp. Watching. Measuring.

He said his name was Matthew.

What he didn't know, yet, was that I hadn't come to this country for a vacation.

________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

I woke up again, this time to silence.

The light was different, brighter, softer. My ribs ached less, though the tightness of the bandages reminded me I wasn’t just dreaming. I sat up slowly, careful not to tear anything open, and scanned the room.

He was gone.

The boy, Matthew, he said his name was, wasn’t anywhere in sight. The mattress dipped slightly where he must’ve been sitting earlier, and a folded blanket rested by my side like he'd left it there on purpose. I glanced toward the door. Still closed. No sounds from outside. Just the quiet hum of the city outside, muffled by walls thick with paint and time.

I could’ve waited. Should’ve, maybe. But something pulled at me. Curiosity, mostly. The kind that comes after you nearly bleed outside a stranger’s studio and wake up in their bed.

I stood, bracing myself on the wall. My legs felt like rusted metal, stiff and slow, but they held. The studio was... warm. Messy. Lived-in. The kind of place someone called home even if they never said it out loud.

Canvases leaned against the walls, some half-finished, some just blank white promises. One stood tall on a paint-streaked stand, the brushstrokes still fresh. Thick swirls of blue and black bled into each other, like a storm caught mid-scream. It made my skin crawl and settle at the same time.

There was a long table pushed against the wall near the mattress, cluttered with things, tiny wooden carvings, each one smoothed by hand; some kind of photo frame facedown; a few scattered pencils and graphite sticks; a notebook, closed and worn at the edges.

I didn’t touch the journal. Whatever secrets he kept in there, they weren’t mine to read.

There were photographs too. Simple ones, nature shots, mostly. Mountains, rivers, abandoned buildings kissed by sunset. But then I saw it. A picture frame standing upright, half-tucked behind a row of carving tools.

It was a woman. Her smile was soft, eyes sharp in the way that said she noticed everything. She looked... like him. Almost identical, down to the jawline and the dark curls falling over her forehead.

His mother?

I didn’t mean to stare, but something about her gaze felt magnetic. Gentle. Knowing. Like she’d seen worse things and still chose to smile for the camera.

I stepped back, letting out a breath I didn’t know I was holding.

This space, this whole studio, it felt sacred. Quietly screaming with everything he couldn’t say out loud.

And for some reason, I felt like I wasn’t supposed to be here. Not yet.

I stared at her a moment longer.

There was something tragic about the photograph—not in the picture itself, but in the way it was hidden. Like it had once belonged on a wall but now sat tucked behind clutter, close enough to reach but never quite looked at.

"That's my mum."

The voice nearly stopped my heart.

I spun around instinctively, reaching for nothing, senses flaring like I'd been caught breaking into something sacred—which, I suppose, I had. Matthew stood a few feet behind me, a roll of gauze in one hand, calm as ever.

I hadn’t heard the door. Hadn’t heard anything at all.

His expression didn’t shift. No anger. No guilt. Just quiet observation.

"I wasn’t trying to snoop," I said, sharper than I meant.

"I know," he said simply, walking past me toward the mattress. "You didn’t open anything. I would’ve heard it."

He knelt down, placing the gauze on the floor beside a small tin box filled with other medical supplies. I watched him in silence for a moment as he fiddled with the lid.

"I wasn’t outside," he added after a beat, glancing up. "I’ve got a storage room through there—"

He nodded toward a thin door near the back, painted the same color as the wall. I hadn’t even noticed it.

"Thought I had more bandages in there, and I did. Lucky for you."

I didn’t respond. He was too casual about it all, too at ease with a stranger bleeding on his floor and poking around his belongings.

"I made you coffee," he said, motioning toward the table near the easel. A chipped mug sat there, steam curling lazily from the top. "Figured you’d be the type who likes it bitter."

I raised an eyebrow but made no move toward it.

He sat cross-legged near the mattress, arms resting on his knees. “You know,” he started, brushing a bit of lint from his sleeve, “I never did get your name.”

I kept my gaze on him.

“Would you care enough to tell me,” he continued, “or should I just keep calling you stranger?”

There was a glint in his eyes—playful, but not mocking. Testing me.

I hesitated, just for a second. “Andrei.”

“Just Andrei?”

“For now.”

He nodded like that was a fair deal. “Alright then, Just Andrei.”

I let out a quiet breath. The air between us felt... different now. Still cautious, but lighter.

“How old are you?” I asked, more to keep the conversation than out of genuine curiosity. That was a lie, of course.

“Nineteen,” he said. “Technically twenty in a couple months. You?”

“Twenty-five.”

He gave a short whistle. “You look older.”

“I’ve had worse nights.”

That earned a laugh—quick and genuine.

“Where do you study?” I asked.

“Art college,” he replied, stretching his arms behind him. “It’s not far from here. I’m usually there... when I’m not sleeping on paint tubes.”

He tilted his head toward the scattered mess near the easel. “Explains the spine problems.”

I almost smiled. Almost.

He looked back at me then, eyes still warm but slightly curious. “What about you? You from around here?”

“No. Russia.”

“Ah,” he said, as if something made sense now. “That explains the brooding.”

I gave him a flat look, and he just grinned.

I didn’t answer the rest. Didn’t tell him what I did. What I was here for. It wasn’t time.

Matthew didn’t press. He just leaned back on his hands, content with what little I gave him. And somehow, I hated that.

Not because he was careless... but because he wasn’t

Matthew:

Andrei was gone by that afternoon.

He said he had somewhere to be, something to handle. I protested of course, I'm not heartless, and he was still bleeding beneath those fresh bandages. But he insisted. Said he'd already been there too long. I knew better than to argue with someone like him. a man like that doesn't take orders from anyone.

So I watched him limp off with a grimace, his coat thrown over one arm, phone already in hand. He didn't say goodbye. Not really. he just looked at me with those unreadable eyes and nodded. That was it.

________________________________________________________

By the time I got to college, I was already late for morning theory. Not that anyone cared. Art school isn't exactly built on strict punctuality.

I slipped into the lecture hall and slid into the back seat. Ms. Julia was halfway through her lecture about composition in still life, her voice distant and slow like it was fighting against my thoughts. I pulled out my sketchpad just to look busy.

My mind wasn't in class.

I was stuck in my studio, replaying the image of Andrei hunched on my mattress, wincing as he tried not to bleed through his shirt. I'd never had anyone in my space like that before, especially not someone who looked like they came from a crime noir film, all sharp eyes and darker secrets.

What kind of world had I let walk into my apaftment?

________________________________________________________

When the lecture ended, I wandered towards the campus studio spaces, large white-walled rooms with high ceilings, littered with half-finished canvases, Old easels, coffee cups, and paint-smudged students too exhausted to care. I dropped my bag and got to work. Or tried to.

I stared at the blank canvas for a while. My hand hovered with a brush but didn't move.

Too much noise in my head.

Was Andrei okay? Did he make it back safely? Should I have insisted he stay longer?

or... was it stupid to care this much?

He's a stranger. A dangerous one, probably.

But there was something about him. The way he looked at the photo of my mother without asking questions. The way he didn't touch my journal or any of my carvings, even though he had the chance.

He had manners. Strange, but kind. Silent, but repectful. A contradiction in motion.

___________________________________________________

I started sketching. Not from reference, just memory. A face. His face. Sharp jaw, slanted brow, that scowl that seemed carved into stone.

It came out messy at first, so I painted over it. Then I tried again. a second version, rougher, angrier. Still wrong. I tore the canvas off and started a new one. This one came easier. It wasn't realistic, but it captured the feeling.

Dark smears around the edges. A shadowy figure in motion. One eye glowing under a fractured glass. The air around him warped, like something dangerous just beneath the surface.

I stepped back. My chest ached.

Why was I painting this.

I stare at the unfinished piece. I feel something twist in my chest.

It’s too loud in my head. Too tight in my chest.

My fingers grip the brush tighter until I hear the wood strain. Paint drips from the edge like blood, thick and deliberate. I swallow hard and force myself to breathe, but it’s like the canvas is staring back at me. Like it knows. Like it’s mocking me.

“Still can’t focus, huh?” someone mumbles from behind, but I don't look. I ignore it. I ignore all of it.

And then I’m packing.

I don’t even care to clean my station properly. I leave the canvas propped up against the stand, half-done, maybe never to be touched again. My brushes go into the pouch with stained tips and metal edges clinking against each other like brittle bones. The class isn’t even over yet, but I toss my bag over my shoulder and leave anyway.

Outside, the sky’s already bruising with rain. Of course it is. My boots scuff against the damp pavement as I shove my hands into my coat pockets and walk.

I don’t know why I feel like this.

Maybe it’s because Andrei left and the space feels too quiet now. Maybe it’s because that stupid canvas wouldn’t speak to me today, no matter how hard I tried to drag something honest out of it. Or maybe it’s because I'm exhausted of being haunted by ghosts I can't draw without shaking.

I walk slower.

The streets blur past in streaks of gray and red — tail lights, puddles, reflections. The cold’s numbing, but I kind of like it. It gives me something to focus on. Something sharp. Something real.

I wonder what Andrei’s doing now.

Where he went. Who he really is.

Because no ordinary man moves like that with a stab wound. No ordinary man has hands like his — calloused and steady but never cruel. There’s something behind his eyes that doesn’t fit the word stranger. Something old. Dangerous. Something familiar.

And I hate how curious I am.

I keep walking anyway. Not knowing that there were eyes on my back.

________________________________________________________

The door to my studio creaks when I push it open. I’ve meant to fix the hinges for weeks now, but like everything else around here, it keeps getting pushed down the list.

Inside, the light's dim. The overhead bulbs flicker once before settling into a sickly hum. I drop my bag on the floor without care and start pulling off my coat, but then I stop.

There’s something on the table.

At first, I think I’m imagining it. I haven’t brought anything new in for days. No deliveries. No commissions. Nothing.

But there it is.

A box.

Matte black. Tied with a silk ribbon — crimson like fresh blood. It’s not the cheap kind either. This is thick, weighty fabric, the kind you find in high-end boutiques that don’t even put price tags on their shelves. There’s a small white card tucked underneath the ribbon. No name. Just one neat word, handwritten in perfect cursive:

"To the artist."

My breath hitches. I hesitate, standing still for far too long before reaching for it.

The ribbon falls away with a soft whisper.

Inside the box, cushioned in velvet, lies a set of oil paints.

But not just any paints.

These are rare, artisan-grade, imported. Hand-milled pigments. The kind I’ve only ever seen behind locked glass in exclusive shops. The kind that costs more than I’ve ever had in my bank account at once. The colors shimmer faintly, even in the poor lighting. There’s a gold-labeled tube of lapis lazuli blue, the real kind. A green that looks like crushed emerald. Reds that are so deep they look like melted rubies.

I exhale slowly, blinking.

I touch one of the tubes like it might vanish.

This… this isn’t just a gift.

This is a statement.

A silent message spelled out in ultramarine and cadmium:

"I see you."

"I know what you're worth."

"Don’t forget me."

My fingers tighten around the edge of the box. My mind races.

He didn’t leave his name, but I know it’s from him.

Andrei.

Who else would know I paint? Who else would slip away quietly and still leave something behind that screams of wealth and taste and mystery?

Who even is he?

He bled on my floor last night. Ate my cold leftovers. And now this?

He’s not normal. Not just some Russian guy who got jumped in an alley. No. There's weight behind him. Power.

Money.

Danger.

I bite the inside of my cheek, pacing now. My mind won’t settle. I feel like there’s a puzzle laid out in front of me with half the pieces flipped upside down.

I want to know more.

I need to.

He didn’t even leave a number. No last name. Just vanished.

But a part of me , a reckless, hopeful part that I usually keep chained, wants our paths to cross again. Maybe by chance. Maybe not.

Because anyone who leaves behind a gift like this…

Isn’t finished yet.

And neither am I.