The studio felt like a cathedral of glass and grief. A week had passed since the masquerade, and the blank canvas Adrian had set before me felt like a mountain I was forced to climb with bare, bleeding hands. He wanted a portrait of the "Ghost Girl"—the girl in the white dress who had become a haunting echo in the halls of my mind. He wanted me to paint her as a fading memory, a way to prove that she was nothing compared to the masterpiece he had made of me.
But as I stood before the easel, the charcoal in my hand didn't move toward her likeness. Instead, it moved toward the shadows.
The morning light was harsh, reflecting off the monitors that lined the studio walls. 70 bpm.I was learning the art of the "dead heart"—keeping my pulse so steady it was almost a flatline, a silent protest a
