Page 58 of Painter's Obsession

Ren.

He’s sitting by the window, a book open in his lap, his expression calm, serene, like a predator waiting patiently for its prey. His onyx eyes flick to me briefly, and the corner of his mouth twitches into a smirk.

“You should rest,” he says, his voice low, almost soothing.

Something moves behind him—a shadow, tall and spindly, its limbs too long and too sharp. It stretches toward him, clawing at the air, but Ren doesn’t seem to notice.

Maybe I should warn him.

I try to speak, but my throat is a desert, cracked and useless. My eyes close against my will, dragging me back into the dark.

I’m running through the woods.

“Help!” Gabriela shrieks, her voice tearing through the night. The branches claw at my arms and legs, thin and gnarled like skeletal fingers.

“BYROONNN!” she screams again, a sound so horrific it doesn’t seem real.

I pump my legs harder, desperation burning in my chest, only to skid to a stop.

Her body.

Gabriela’s headless body hangs from the branches above, perched grotesquely like a macabre trophy. Blood drips from her neck, staining the bark below, pooling at my feet.

“NO!” I scream, the sound ripping through me, raw and guttural.

This time when I wake again, the cold hits me first. It seeps into my skin, biting and relentless, and for a moment, I think I’m back in that basement, tied to the chair with my father looming over me.

But no—this is worse.

Ren is sitting by the window, facing me this time. He’s sketching, I think. His pencil moves in harsh, deliberate strokes, the sound grating against my ears like nails on a chalkboard.

“Wat—“ I try to make a sound, but my throat feels dry. My hand moves weakly to my lips, and the stickiness there feels uncomfortable, foreign.

I close my eyes, trying to gather my strength. I’m so fucking thirsty.

When I open them again, the room shifts. The sketchpad is gone. The walls ripple, and faces emerge from the shadows—distorted, grotesque. Their mouths gape, twisted in silent screams as crimson spills from them, flowing toward me like a rising tide.

“Stop,” I croak, my voice barely audible.

Ren’s head tilts, his onyx eyes locking onto mine, gleaming like black mirrors. He sets the pencil down and stands, his movements slow, deliberate.

“You’re persistent,” he murmurs, crouching beside me. His fingers are ice-cold as they press a damp rag to my forehead.

I flinch, but he holds me still, his hand firm.

“Relax,” he says softly, his tone mockingly gentle. “You’re not dying. I’ve made sure of it. Rest.”

Rest. If only I could. The rag is too cold, the water dripping down my temple feels like ice burrowing into my skull. My eyes close again, but this time, the dark doesn’t feel empty.

I see her.

Gabriela stands in the studio, her hands bound, her mouth gagged, and her brown eyes wide and filled with terror. Blood trickles from the corner of her lips, staining her golden skin. She tries to scream, but nothing but muffled sounds come out.

My chest tightens, and I try to move, but my body won’t respond. My legs feel like they’re made of lead, my arms like stone.

“Help me,” she pleads, her voice echoing unnaturally, splitting and doubling until it surrounds me from every direction.

I try to scream, but nothing comes out.

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