With his hands buried in the pockets of his joggers, Chris dragged his feet into the studio, his slippers screeching against the wooden floor. Damp strands of hair clung to his forehead, the weight of exhaustion pressing on his shoulders.
The air carried the sharp tang of turpentine and drying paint—a blend of creativity and fatigue. Moonlight streamed through the floor-to-ceiling glass window, casting golden streaks across the polished floor. Easels stood in quiet anticipation, some cradling half-finished canvases, while paintbrushes stiff with forgotten colours rested in jars. A few abstract paintings adorned the white walls—bursts of emotion frozen in time.
His gaze swept the room and landed on a shelf in the farthest corner. Unlike the rest of the pristine space, this one bore the weight of neglect. Dust coated its wooden surface, thick and undisturbed, while cobwebs stretched like brittle veins in the dim light. A faint musty scent curled from it, whispering of time left untouched.
Far from the long shelf where his painting tools were meticulously arranged, this one was different—an untouched mystery, hidden away as if forbidden.
Chris let out a slow breath, his feet dragging forward as if resisting the pull, stomach twisting with unease. He fished a key from his pocket, fingers trembling against the cold metal. A shiver ran down his spine as an icy sensation crawled beneath his skin. He fumbled with the key before slotting it into the lock. When it clicked open, the sound rang in his ears like an alarm, his pulse hammering in response.
For a long moment, he didn't move, every breath loud in the silence.
Then, with a deep inhale, he pulled the shelf open.
Paintings.
His pulse kicked up again, sweat beading at his temples. His fists curled at his sides, knuckles blanching. He despised this feeling—this fragility that had crept into him. His body, once steady and unyielding, now betrayed him over the smallest things.
The tumour was toying with him—his mind, his body. And for a fleeting moment, he wanted nothing more than to slam the shelf shut, lock it away, and walk out.
This isn't me any more.
His nails bit into his palms as he clenched his fists tighter.
What am I even doing here?
A sudden wave of anger surged through him. With a sharp snap, he shut the shelf, locking it in one swift motion. Without a second thought, he turned and strode out.
In the adjoining sitting room, he poured himself a glass of water and downed it in one gulp. The glass struck the table with a sharp bang, the sound slicing through the quiet like a knife. He braced his palms against the cold surface, lowering his head as his breath trembled. His chest had been aching like this ever since he visited his uncle.
"I only have you now. And I would like to see your face before I die."
If his uncle died, then who would be there when his own time came? Who would stand by his deathbed? Who would even bury him? The questions gnawed at him, relentless, no matter how much he tried to shove them aside, convincing himself he didn't care.
His illness was worsening, and there was no one to check on him. No one to ask how he was holding up.
A memory surfaced—walking out of the hospital after seeing Alex. A mother cradled her son, brushing his forehead, murmuring reassurances, her touch light, comforting.
For a brief, absurd moment, he wondered: Would his mother have done the same for him now?
A dry chuckle escaped his lips, hollow and bitter. His jaw tightened. His fists clenched, then crashed against the table. The glass rattled violently, teetering on the edge.
He hated this—the spiralling thoughts, the way they clawed at his mind like thorns, refusing to let go. Hated the weight pressing against his ribs, the heat burning behind his eyes. Hated whatever had triggered them again.
Isa.
His gaze darkened, drilling into the table as if willing it to crack under his stare.
She has to leave.
But her smile flickered in his mind like a whispering breeze. The faint scent of almonds teased his nose, sharp and inescapable. His stomach twisted.
"You needed someone. Maybe an assistant," Alex had said the day his diagnosis was confirmed.
"You have no choice. There's no way you can finish the project alone."
Maybe Alex was right.
Maybe Isa was the right person.
A dry, humourless laugh rasped from his throat.
"Right person?" he scoffed, another chuckle slipping out, sharp and bitter.
Listen, mind—she can't be my assistant.
She—
Chris shook his head forcefully, as if trying to dislodge the thought before it took root. He recalled how she had fallen to her knees, breath ragged, sweat glistening on her forehead.
"I'm sorry, sir. Forgive me this once!" Her voice had trembled, desperate, as if her life depended on this job.
His chest constricted, a pang so sharp it stole his breath. He pressed his lips together, swallowing down a groan that threatened to escape.
Do I have to care?
He tilted his head slightly, as if considering.
Be honest, Chris.
She's incompetent.
"Then let her stay. Just for three months. Just until you complete your dream project." His uncle's words echoed in his mind.
"I'll keep your words in mind," he had responded.
"Is that a promise?"
He had nodded.
He had made a promise.
But not her.
Chris rubbed the back of his neck and exhaled heavily.
Then I must find an excuse to fire her—a reasonable one.
His lips curled into a slow, sinister smile, the shadow of a dangerous thought taking shape in his mind.