The city whispered his name—Vanitas, the painter who captured not just faces but souls. Some called it a gift; others feared it was a curse. Yet all agreed—his portraits did not lie.

Seraphine had sought him, drawn by the rumours. Now, in his dimly lit studio, the scent of oil and turpentine thick in the air, she stood before the legend himself. Shadows flickered along the walls, stretching and shrinking with the candlelight. Vanitas worked in silence, his brush gliding over the canvas with eerie precision, as though pulling something from her that had long been buried.

At first, the portrait was ordinary. Then, the shadows deepened, and the colours thickened like drying blood. The painted eyes gleamed—not just with light but with something else. Something knowing. A vial nestled in the folds of her painted gown, barely noticeable yet undeniable. Dark smudges marred her delicate hands, faint but damning. The pearls at her throat tightened, not as adornment but as a noose.

Her past bled onto the canvas—whispers in the dark, tinctures slipped into goblets, bruises that never had to heal. The saviour. The executioner. The reckoning in silk. Each stroke of Vanitas’ brush revealed another secret, another truth she had long kept hidden beneath civility and lace. The face in the painting did not accuse her, nor did it absolve her. It simply knew.

Her breath hitched; her pulse quickened. The weight of the painting pressed against her as though it, too, could see into the depths of her soul. She had not done it out of malice. She had not done it out of vengeance. She had done it because someone had to. Because no one else would.

Vanitas finally spoke, his voice a whisper against the suffocating silence. “The truth is not what you wish it to be.”

Seraphine’s fingers trembled as they brushed against the canvas. The shadow in the painting rippled beneath her touch, the darkness curling like ink in water. For a fleeting moment, she felt it might pull her in, drag her into the depths of her own making.

She took a step back, her breath steadying. The longer she stared, the more she realised it wasn’t a judgment of her actions but a revelation of the truth she had long hidden from herself. The darkness on the canvas was not an enemy—it was simply a reflection of who she truly was. The hand that had once trembled now stilled. She was not afraid anymore.

Vanitas watched her carefully, his expression unreadable. “You see it now.”

Seraphine lifted her chin. “I do.”

She turned, stepping away from the portrait and the truth that had nearly swallowed her whole—but she stepped away not in retreat. She walked with purpose, her silk gown whispering against the floor as she crossed the threshold and disappeared into the night.

The studio remained silent, the air thick with something unseen. And in the corner, the painting waited, its gaze unwavering.

Some said it vanished by morning. Others swore they saw it, still tucked away in the shadows of his studio—watching and waiting for its subject to return.