“…and this piece,” I said, gesturing toward the canvas bathed in soft amber light, “is titled ‘Fragments of Dawn.’ It captures that uncertain moment between breaking and healing — where the past still lingers, but hope begins to seep through.”Polite applause followed. Cameras clicked. A few guests whispered the usual words — brilliant, haunting, bold.I smiled faintly, thanking them, though my chest felt hollow. The painting wasn’t about light or color. It was about him. Jones.I moved to the next display, letting the rhythm of my explanation guide me. It was easier to talk about art than to think about absence.Then the air shifted. The door creaked softly, and I heard footsteps — steady, confident, expensive.I didn’t turn immediately, but curiosity tugged at me. The crowd seemed to part on instinct, and there he was.Lewis Carter.Of all people.He walked in with that usual mix of charm and quiet arrogance, scanning the room like he owned it. I watched him from the corner of my ey

~~~ Kai Won ~~~“You—you killed him. You murdered your own blood, your own brother… You’re evil!” Martin yelled.I trembled behind the door, covering my mouth as tears ran down my face. I couldn’t believe it—Mario had murdered Richard, our brother.Mario stood behind the table facing the window, a glass of whiskey in his hand. His back was turned to Martin, calm and cold. When he finally turned, he walked closer until they were face-to-face.“You make it sound like I committed the worst crime in the universe,” Mario said, his voice smooth. “Relax. It’s not that big a deal.”My heart sank. There was no guilt in his eyes—only a terrifying calm, as if killing Richard was the most natural thing in the world.“You evil bastard! You have no regret for your atrocity!” Martin’s voice cracked with rage.“Why should I?” Mario smirked. “You’re not as innocent as you claim to be, Martin.”“I’ll make sure you pay for what you did. For your sin. I’ll bring you to justice!”“And how exactly do you p

‐‐~ Kai ~‐‐Dawn turned into night.I had done nothing worth calling a day except drinking.Today was supposed to be productive. Today, I told myself I would forget the dream — the nightmare — and focus. But the hours slipped through my fingers like dust. Every time I tried to start something, my mind dragged me back into that dark place. The place where the nightmare kept replaying, shifting, distorting, whispering things I didn’t want to hear.Frustration clawed at my chest. I couldn’t think. I couldn’t breathe. My mind felt like a cage tightening around me.Enough.Inside my studio, the air smelled of charcoal and turpentine — familiar, safe.I sat before the blank sheet, the pen trembling between my fingers.“Focus,” I whispered to myself.Lines began to form. Soft, fluid strokes. A silhouette. Then two. A man… a woman. My hand moved faster, almost automatically, as if something else was guiding me. Something old. Something buried.The male figure appeared first — the same figure

Continuation of chapter one.Kai — Arrival at the GalaThe ride to the Gala was silent, save for the low hum of the engine and the occasional vibration from my iPad. City lights streaked across the window—gold, white, violet—blurring together like an unfinished painting.I scrolled through the final catalog Clara had sent an hour ago: placement charts, lighting corrections, security grids, predicted turnout. My collections glowed on the screen—oil pieces, charcoal sketches, shattered-glass abstracts, fractured portraits. All bound to the theme of the exhibition:Past lives.Reincarnation.Echoes.Memories that didn’t belong to this lifetime.And threaded through nearly every work—subtle, half-hidden, sometimes only suggested in a shadow—was one recurring figure. The same silhouette. The same haunting outline.I still didn’t know who he was. Or why he kept appearing. Or why my hand seemed compelled to paint him, again and again.The thought gnawed at me, but tonight wasn’t for doubt. T

The ride to my place was a graveyard of words. Nothing but silence and the weight of everything I couldn’t tell her. She kept glancing my way; I kept pretending not to notice. My head was already drowning in the mess at the site, and the fight at the gala still burned through my veins.The second we stepped in, I pushed the door open too hard and walked straight through the living room. Marie rushed in behind me, breath unsteady.“Jones—stop!” Her hand gripped my arm.I turned, jaw tight, pulse still punching through my throat. I could feel the leftover rage in my eyes, hot and unruly.“You’ve still not given me an answer,” she said. “What was that? And where were you all night? You disappeared for hours—No calls, no text—and then you show up starting a fight?”I exhaled sharply, the memory flashing through my mind. “I didn’t start a fight,” I said, voice low and rough. “He tried to—he tried to touch you and I can’t let that happen. You know me better.… I don’t let anyone touch what’s