A/N: The Evil Within 2 Drinking Game - Stefano Edition: Starting from the City Hall chapter, take a drink every time Stefano says "art," "artist," or "beautiful." If you have even a moderately strong drink, I promise you that you will not be lucid by the time you reach his boss fight. Trust me.

He welcomed the embrace of creation—the consuming fire lit within him by the spark of inspiration. It was beyond any drug known to man. Every time it reentered his system, he became obsessed, absolutely fixated. And the rush was maddening.

He couldn't wait to see what wonderful things he would create with this one.

The wide studio space slowly darkened as evening drew close. The setting sun threw shadows of the umbrella-like reflectors and easels across the open space. A line of marble busts lined the wall to the right, their ivory faces reflecting the dying light.

Large prints balanced on some of the easels. Others leaned against the wall—half finished. They were fitted inside mattes, but lacked frames. The work-in-progresses of his dull, distasteful commissions. Such was all that was demanded from him by his boring clientele, and it was a disgusting waste of his talents. But he knew they lacked too much in the space between their ears to appreciate his real work. And speaking of which…

She came delivered to him by a taxi. He watched from the window as she stepped out, dressed in a dark gray pea coat. A wide pair of dark shades obscured her face, and her hair was pulled back into a bun. A large leather bag was carried in one hand. She had the look of a woman trying to look as nondescript as possible. He wondered if anyone knew she was here. It would certainly save him the trouble if no one did.

But then he began to wonder. There were two things an artist needed—the art, and the admirer. He had seen her performance with his own eye, and wondered if maybe she could truly be considered an artist on his level.

An admirer would be nice. Never had his real art—his true art—been admired by the few who'd had the privilege of witnessing it. Well, those who refused to appreciate the art became a part of it.

His brooding paused when he heard her delicate raps on the door. He allowed a few seconds to pass before heading over to answer it. When they came face-to-face, Celestina reached up and plucked the shades from her face.

"Ah, cara mia, I hardly recognized you," he jested lightly. He swooped down to deliver two soft kisses to both of her cheeks, a greeting he often had to restrain from now that he was in the States. Celestina, however, lifted her face expectantly when he did. He was careful not to smudge her immaculately applied bronzer. Her skin was incredibly soft.

"It is one of the curses of being a public figure, Stefano," Celestina sighed as she stepped through the door. "Even just a niche one. Imagine if a sneaky little rat caught a snap of me in the doorway with you just then. Could you imagine?"

Ugh. The paparazzi were one of the many types Stefano hated—apes with cameras, smearing the good reputation of real photographers like him.

"Especially since I was to attend a garden party hosted by our lovely mayor tonight," Celestina continued as she unbuttoned the front of her pea coat. "Don't worry—it's not like it was anything important. He just wanted me there to make him look better."

Celestina was interesting. She was becoming a woman Stefano hadn't imagined her to be. If she was going to become art, she was going to be a truly unique composition. Underneath her pea coat, Celestina was wearing a cashmere tunic sweater that ended at the tops of her thighs. It hugged the curves of her waist quite nicely.

"It's a shame, isn't it," Stefano sympathized, "how those with little appreciation demand so much?"

"And yet I'm only here because you asked." Celestina laughed, and even that sounded like music. "I'm only teasing, my dear photographer." She turned away and walked further into the studio, one hand carrying her bag and the other held her coat. "Quite the place," she mused. She stopped by the westerly wall, which was entirely made of glass. "I bet that provides wonderful lighting, doesn't it?" Celestina's eyes fell on the photographs in their mattes. "Your work?"

"Commissions," Stefano clarified, following loosely after her as she explored the studio space. It was a little embarrassing that these bland prints were here for her to admire while his real treasures had to be hidden away. "Cara mia, let me take that coat."

"Grazie." She gave him her coat. It had captured some of the perfume from her skin. Stefano hung it onto a hook by the door and returned to the studio. He found Celestina gently stroking the cheek of one of the busts. "Is it just you here?" she asked, looking around as though expecting to see someone else.

"I tend to find company distracting."

"Doesn't it get lonely?"

Stefano didn't answer. To be honest, he never considered himself truly alone. Before he could say anything, Celestina quickly said, "Forgive me, Stefano. That was too blunt of me."

"Think nothing of it."

Celestina gave him a smile and turned to look at the far end of the studio. It was there that he had set up his shooting space—tall lights and reflectors framed a gray backdrop. There, a beautiful dark cherry wood table and chair had been set. Atop the table was a thin-necked vase with a single crimson rose. "This is… more than I expected," Celestina admitted.

"For the sake of beauty, I do not hold back," Stefano said. He had seen the posters displayed in the theatre lobby that advertised La Contessa's performances. Whoever had taken those portraits was a simpleton amateur compared to him, and he was appalled the theatre had even seen fit to exhibit such garbage. "Now, cara mia, shall we get started?"

She surprised him with a sudden burst of laughter. "Stefano!" she chirped. "Did you really think I'd wear this for my shoot? Just who do you think I am?"

Oh, I know exactly who you are. I've seen plenty like you. Molded plenty of those like you into my masterpieces, and you shall be no different.

"Where is your bathroom? I need to change."

He told her which door it was behind and listened to the receding sounds of her footsteps. As he waited, Stefano readied his camera. It was one of his most prized possessions—the conduit for which his ingenuity manifested into physical form. His mind began wandering. The cogs of creativity turned. Hmm… and then when this boring little photo shoot—this front—was over, how should he truly make her shine?

Stefano heard the door open, followed by the clicking of heels. He lifted his eyes and paused at the sight of her.

Her rich brown hair fell in lazy curls over one shoulder. Celestina had changed into a long black gown—a halter-top cut so low it nearly revealed her naval. The dress left little to the imagination. Her scantily revealed skin seemed to highlight the gleaming pearl necklace just above her collarbones. It was almost enough to remind him that there was beauty in a living subject as well.

"Is something wrong? Perhaps a little too… forward?" There wasn't an ounce of regret in her voice.

"Of course not. Whatever makes you feel most comfortable in your own skin," Stefano answered, watching Celestina walk to the table and take a seat. She crossed her legs, letting one emerge from the slit in her gown.

"Well, my dear photographer? I am your composition. Direct me as you will."

He stepped away from the camera, feeling her eyes following him curiously. "I hope you don't mind," he told her, "but I prefer a bit of music when I work." A vintage record player sat at on a nearby table. A glossy record was already placed on it, simply waiting for the needle to reveal its tune. Stefano switched it on and, delicately, rested the needle atop its spinning surface. The soothing notes of an orchestra lifted into the air.

"Tchaikovsky?" he heard Celestina note.

"Yes," Stefano replied, impressed and slightly bemused. "I'm surprise you recognized it so fluidly."

"I'm a musician," she said, leaning on the chair's arm. "It is no different than you being able to identify a Manet or a Rembrandt."

This one's words were like milk and honey. It was such a shame her words would have to be silenced once she became art—he did rather like listening to them. With her reclined gracefully in the chair, and the record player relaying the full elegance of a symphony, he began capturing her in his lens. His subject was undeniably a beautiful creature, but he couldn't wait to make her truly radiant.

Then, he heard her sigh. It was a foreign sound. Stefano lifted his face from behind the camera. Celestina, sitting in the chair with one hand lifted to delicately frame her face, looked… bored.

"Is your muse tired tonight?" she suddenly asked.

He wasn't quite sure what to make of her question. Part of him was angered that she had the gall to say such a thing, and the other part of him was heavily intrigued.

"Is there something that doesn't agree with you, cara mia?"

"I'm just a little tired," Celestina mumbled quietly.

"I see." Stefano straightened up. The needle was taken off of the spinning record, quickly cutting off the serenade of strings. Stepping towards his subject, he offered a hand to her. She took it and rose. "How about a break, then? And afterwards… we'll have a change of style."

"Sounds fun."

He led her around the backdrop to the second half of the home—his actual living space, whereas the front was very much his working area where the studio and darkroom were. This space, too, was relatively open with only the bathroom and walk-in closet being behind doors. Celestina chuckled airily as she stepped around. "How did I miss the entire second half of this building?" she mused. "Your home is quite beautiful." She settled down at a glass-topped table.

Stefano left her there momentarily to fetch a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon and two glasses. Celestina's face lit up with amusement when she saw them in his hands. "You spoil me, Stefano!"

"Cara mia, you are the kind of woman who deserves to be spoiled." The Cabernet was uncorked with a satisfying plunk. It filled the glasses with a deep, thick red—a color Stefano was all too fond of. And he had found that after a few glasses, his compositions tended to be a bit more… compliant while he transformed them.

Their glasses touched with a "Salute" exchanged. As Stefano took his sip, he watched Celestina drink from her glass. He saw the movement in her throat as she swallowed. Ah, that throat of gold. He would have to be sure to preserve it.

But something was bothering him. He was beginning to question his desire to use her body as a medium for his creativity. But why? An artist of his caliber ought to not have qualms about his work, and these second thoughts pestered him immensely.

"Celestina," he said. "Indulge me—what did you mean earlier when you asked about my muse?"

Celestina cupped the swell of the glass in her palm. She gazed down at it. "I didn't mean to offend," she said. "It just felt like you were holding back on me." Her eyes lifted and captured his. "And after we've gone through all this trouble to get to know each other. Who are you, Stefano, and why are you hiding from me?"

This wasn't how it was supposed to go at all. But even though things weren't going to plan, Stefano was fascinated. "An artist," he answered. "With a taste for the exotic."

"Which artist doesn't have eccentric taste?" Celestina challenged. "It's such a common trait that it has become rather non-eccentric."

"Your glass is starting to grow empty. Allow me." Celestina held her glass out and let Stefano pour more wine into it.

"And your muse—she seems to neglect you tonight. How poor. You deserve one that fills you with so much… excitement."

As her words echoed in his mind, Stefano was sent back to the moment he had first seen her—that first breathtaking, heart-pounding performance. Oh, had it filled him with joy to know that there were other masters that shared in his taste. That there was someone who could appreciate the art.

"There is a button," Celestina continued, cutting through Stefano's thoughts, "behind the left ear of your center bust. Are you hiding a bat cave, Stefano? Or perhaps you like to drop people down to your pet rancor?"

He remembered how her hand had been on the bust's cheek. Stefano wasn't aloof to the fact that a normal person would've found that discovery rather off-putting. And yet she had stayed the rest of the night, even acted calm and innocent to make him none the wiser. Stefano was beginning to like her more and more.

"Would you like to see?"

Her answering smile told him all he needed to know.

The button opened a small trapdoor in the darkroom that was next to the busts. It led down to a narrow staircase that curled to the left as it descended. The darkness was blinding. Stefano felt Celestina's hand grip his tightly as he led her down. Was she beginning to grow frightened, he wondered? The very thought made him excited.

The air grew chilly. It was necessary to preserve his work. The stairway led down to a large chamber where their footsteps threw up long, ghostly echoes against the aluminum walls. Suddenly, motion-triggered lights came on as they neared the center of the chamber. There was four—one each for the glass displays at the far end of the room.

Within the displays were four perfectly preserved human heads, all of women. Jewels and feathers had been grafted onto their skin the semblance of masquerade masks. Stefano had been sure to generously cover their eyes, as the sunken skin and white cataracts hadn't been so aesthetically pleasing.

On the walls above the displays were the large, framed prints of the best photographs he had taken with these subjects—true masterpieces that perpetuated the stunning marriage of beauty and death. Stefano felt himself swelling with pride just at the sight of them. Oh, it was such a shame they had to be hidden away like this. A vile shame.

He felt Celestina's hand quickly tear away from his. His eyes darted to her, expecting to see a woman riddled with shock and panic.

But she was walking forward, her heels echoing grandly. She had one hand placed over her hip. As she stopped a few feet away from the displays, Stefano saw her gaze sweep over the heads before looking up at the framed photographs.

And then she sighed. It was laced with disappointment.

Anger pushed through Stefano like a knife's tip. She didn't like it. They never did. They were trapped in their dull, philistine, cookie-cutter perspectives—all of them! How cruel that his ingenuity was forced to exist in isolation among bacteria. He stepped forward.

Fine. It didn't matter. He would make her beautiful, and she would stay down here forever as a masterpiece.

"Such a shame," he heard her say. His steps slowed. "You are capable of so much more." He stopped.

Still gazing at the displays, Celestina crossed her arms. She walked to the leftmost one. "I remember her," she said. Stefano thought he heard a stroke of cruel disdain in her voice. "Went missing a month ago until her body was found—no head ever recovered." She turned to Stefano and held her hand up next to her head in the semblance of a phone. "Hello, is this the Krimson City Police Department? I've found it; it's right here." She dropped her hand and walked back to him. "Did you know she once made a snarky comment on the dress I wore to an opening premiere?" Turning back to the display, Celestina ran her hands down her waist and loudly said, "Well, tesoro mio, what do think of this one?"

Never could Stefano have imagined this happening. La Contessa was mad—a true genius. A true admirer. Finally.

"My work doesn't scare you?" He watched her face carefully, looking for even the slightest hint that she too good to be true. And if he happened to catch it…

Her arms were wound around his neck before he knew it. He froze, caught in the cloud of her perfume. "My dear photographer," she purred. "You tease me with your potential." Their breaths puffed out white in the small space between their faces. "I told you she was tired. Throw her out and let me in." He felt her fingertips rest on his cheek. They were cold like a corpse's. "Shall we go back up? It's dreadfully chilly down here. Oh, but you'll have to remove these gloves." She leaned forward and rested her chin on his shoulder, whispering, "They're cold to the touch, and I'll need you to warm me."

No one would be here at this hour—the dark alley spelled death, and no one in their right mind would be anywhere near here. What a good place to dump a few… undesirable items. A few insignificant byproducts left over as a result of his work.

So, of course, it surprised him when he heard voices—a man and a woman's. He paused, wondering if he should move on and dump his things elsewhere. He couldn't be caught with them. Not here, not now. But accursed curiosity overtook him and beckoned him to step quietly into the alley.

He couldn't make out their words, but he could hear the tones painted in their voices. The man sounded accusatory, demanding. The woman's voice was soft, defenseless. 'Oh dear,' he thought to himself. 'Are you in trouble, cara mia? Shall I remain a silent audience to the oncoming performance, or intervene and keep you for myself?'

They were only visible by the meager illumination provided by the streetlight at the far end of the alley. He suddenly saw the woman turn back to the man. She appeared to ask him a question. The man responded firmly. She walked towards him.

And then what he witnessed stole his breath away. He was awestruck.

Quickly, as cold and mechanical as the knife she suddenly wielded, the woman pinned the man against the wall and had the blade through his neck up to the hilt. He tried to let out a shaky rattle—the last sound he could make before the blood filled his ruptured throat. But she even wouldn't let him have that.

Her gloved hand clamped tightly over his mouth. With a flick, she pulled the knife out and let the blood flow freely. It wouldn't be long now.

The man was still twitching against the wall. From where he stood, Stefano heard her.

"Shhhh," she shushed in a cruel, sadistic taunt.

And then she backed away. The body slumped heavily to the ground where its blood would paint the ground. But the performance wasn't over.

The woman pulled off her gloves and wiped the knife clean with it. She walked to the end of the alley where her silent observer stood. It was too dark for her to see him. She threw the gloves in the same crevice Stefano had discarded his own trash. Then—and Stefano could hardly breath as he watched—she returned to the dead man and transformed her own body into a work of art. Clutching the knife in the victim's hand, she slashed her forearms over and over again. Then she pulled her hair back scored a nasty one across her collarbones.

Bleeding freely, she took the knife and held it in her own hands. She coated it in the man's blood, and then dropped it next to him. Rising, she stepped over to the wall. She drew her head back and slammed it against the bricks, letting out a stifled cry. The woman delicately touched her forehead. The attempt wasn't to her liking. Stefano could sympathize with that frustration. She hit her head again. Even from where he stood, Stefano could hear the impact. That wound probably looked beautiful. If only he could've seen it from where he watched.

For her finishing touches the woman tore her dress, shredding it into a mess. She paused, looking around. No doubt admiring her work. Double checking that each detail was at its finest.

And then she screamed. She fell to the ground and let out another heart-rending screech. The sound was as exquisite as a song—the alluring call of a siren atop the seaside rocks.

With every performance would come an audience. Stefano knew people would be drawn to the songstress. It was time to step out. But even if he had only been a silent spectator, he knew this night had changed him. He had seen her, this unknown master.

In this crass, uncouth world, he wasn't alone.

Heavy breaths came in and out through his parted lips, pulling air into his drained body. His hooded eye stared listlessly up at the ceiling. He heard shuffling beside him and the mattress shifted as she got up. The soft pattering of her feet grew distant.

She must have gone to the record player and placed the needle back. The orchestra played up again. He heard her humming along from the bathroom. Her voice was just as alluring as it had been that night.

He closed his eyes. Despite his exhaustion, he had never felt so revitalized. The spark of inspiration was gone. The fire was gone. It had all been consumed by the wild, uncontrollable blaze—the heavenly inferno that filled every vein in his body.

I've finally found her, my new muse.