Chapter Two: To The Artist

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.

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