Isaac wasn't surprised by what he was met with when his eyes cleared.

He wasn't surprised to find two stark black and white figures—one of which he recognized as his own brainless corpse. He was used to these gruesome images by now, and yet he continued to paint them, hoping for some glimmer of hope.

There wasn't one. This is why Isaac wasn't even slightly phased by the fascinated voice that drifted from the doorframe behind him.

"You really can paint the future—just like the professor said. It's fantastic."

"You're late," Isaac replied, furrowing his brow as he turned to meet this tall stranger.

"I guess you know why I'm here."

"You're the one who's going to kill me,"

"That's true."

Silence.

There wasn't much point in running anymore—Isaac knew that well enough. But he felt the sudden urge to go out fighting, so he did the only thing he could do.

"…Tea?"

He stalled.

Ten very awkward moments later, the two men were sitting cross-legged in the middle of Isaac's floor with meager cups of steamless tea in hand. The stranger stared into his, looking quite unimpressed, but said nothing. Several more minutes tripped and stumbled their way by, filled with only the sound of the occasional cough or a cup scraping against the floor.

The painter was the first to break this silence, something quite uncommon for him, but he couldn't help venturing forth hesitantly. "So…brains?"

The other man's eyes immediately narrowed. He had been asked this before, and he wasn't about to give this victim, all wild hair and paint, the satisfaction of a real answer. His reply was, instead, "I'm sitting on your filthy floor drinking cold tea from a chipped cup and you're one to judge?"

"Oh!" Isaac blinked, holding his own cup in front of his eyes, turning it to look at the rim from all angles. He was surprised to find that it was completely intact. "…Could've sworn I gave you the one without the chip," he mumbled apologetically.

The stranger rolled his eyes exasperatedly, unfolded his legs and stood up. He paused and took one last swig before allowing his cup to clatter noisily to the floor. His dark eyes flashed and the corners of his mouth pulled into a smirk as he lifted an index finger. "Better start screaming, Rembrandt."