The studio smelled of turpentine and forgotten time.
Rain tapped softly against the stained windows, a lullaby for the dead things Heian had painted into life. Charcoal outlines of half-naked women lined the walls—none smiling. None whole. Every canvas was a confession: women breaking, offering, surrendering to the invisible force that lived behind the painter's eyes.
And then came her.
Heian didn't hear her knock. She was just—there. Standing in the doorway like she belonged to the ruin.
Her coat was black, wet from the rain. She wore no makeup, no jewelry, no hint of drama—but she had the kind of presence that made silence louder. She met his eyes. Unblinking. Not shy. Not coy. Just... waiting.
He stared at her, silent.
"You're the painter," she said, voice like dusk.
"And you're not what I expected," he answered, stepping forward.
She tilted her head slightly. "And what did you expect?"
"Someone scared," he said. "Someone trembling under her own beauty."
She unbuttoned her coat. Slowly. Deliberately. Underneath, she wore a loose white slip, soaked through. No bra. No shame.
"I've been seen before," she murmured. "But not witnessed. That's why I came."
Heian stepped closer. She didn't flinch. His hand hovered near her jaw, not touching, just feeling the gravity of her skin.
"What's your name?" he asked.
"Liora."
"That means 'light.'"
"Then make me your darkness."
A beat of silence passed between them. Something ancient. Something sexual, but more than that—ritualistic.
"Lie down," he said softly. "On the chaise."
She obeyed without question.
The slip clung to her thighs. Heian moved around her with his sketchbook, charcoal in hand. His fingers trembled for the first time in years.
Liora stared at the ceiling, but her breath hitched when he brushed a strand of hair behind her ear.
"Why me?" he asked.
"Because you don't want to fuck me," she whispered.
"You want to ruin me. And I want that too."