In the Eye of the Artist

by Pairiny10

Stefano Valentini, former war photographer, artist, and serial killer, was lucky to survive his battle with his final masterpiece. Back in Crimson City his actions had consequences, his life is now spent locked within an insane asylum. Maybe, being visited by his masterpiece would give him the grounding he so desperately craved for. But a curse can easily be disguise as a blessing.

3. Chapter3: Death's Art in Hell's Iniquity

Disclaimer: I do not own the Evil Within. This story will contain, blood, gore, violence, and dark themes. Viewer discretion is advised.

"You're awfully quiet today... Something is bothering you; I can tell. You don't mind telling me what it is, do you?... Is it because of your restraints? You should not let them bother you too much; at your status, they'll be gone in a couple of weeks ... Not the restraints I see, well is it due to what transpired last night. The staff mishandled the situation, I apologize for that, but I assure you it will not happen again as long as you're on good behavior."

"What if I'm not?"

"Hm?"

"What if I'm not on good behavior? What if I decide not to listen to you anymore? I don't have to take my medicine, I don't have to stay in that cell, I don't have to sit here and listen to you drone on like a broken record. No, I used to be so much more than what you have reduced me to. I have every right to claim back what you took from me."

"... You're not wrong. You can try and be the person you once were, but that will never happen."

"You sound so sure of yourself."

"I am. You will never reclaim anything, for we never took anything from you. We didn't reduce you to a lesser form of yourself, you came to us like that, broken. We're just trying to help put you back together and bring you out of your delusions."

"Is that why you let him visit me? Because he claims that he will make me remember."

"The reason I let Mr. Castellanos continue to visit you is because he gets a reaction from you that I am unable to trigger. It's truly fascinating how you behave in his mere presence."

"You didn't answer the question, doctor. I have to always answer your questions, so the least you can do is answer one of mine."

"Yes, a part of the reason I let him visit is to aid in memory recovery. I learned to trust him."

"Why? He is no psychologist or doctor or anything that has to do with psychological manipulation. What is it that makes him the one to tell me who I was, who I am supposed to be?"

"... I have my reasons."

"There you are again, doctor."

"I would tell you if I could. Trust me, some things are better off left unknowing."

"Like my memories. You tried bringing them back, but you could not achieve it for months, so you gave up. Apparently, you need a murderous bastard's help to bring them back."

"I didn't give up on you, I simply wanted to take a break since it was doing nothing but putting more stress on you. Listen, I'm trying to help you, if you believe I'm not then you're wrong, I'm already planning to arrange more visits."

"Yes, because that requires true grit, doesn't it?"

"It's not just Mr. Castellanos I want you to talk to."

"Who else do you have in mind?"

"I cannot give out names, but I know you'll get some entertainment from his visitation. I apologize for all the unclear responses I have given, but everything I say or do has a purpose, even if you may not understand it. I know it's difficult for you—"

"Hush!"

"... Excuse me?"

"Don't speak..."

"...?"

"... Do you hear that?"

"Hear what?"

"... The voice."

"I don't hear any voices, but I'm assuming you do?"

"..."

"Mr. Valentini, are you hearing something I'm not?"

"... Maybe."

"I need you to focus. What is the voice saying?"

"It's not saying anything... she's crying."

"Crying, do you know why?"

"... No. They've never cried before."

"I see... Have you been taking your medicine?"

"Oh, o-of course I have doctor, you have no need to worry. It's gone now, I was probably drifting off again and thinking I heard something that was never said. You can forget everything I just said, it is foul nonsense. You were talking about visitation before I so rudely cut you off; I apologize you may continue."

"... You have asked me before what would happen if you decided not to listen to what you have been told. Well, Mr. Valentini, if you were to go on "bad behavior," we will handle you accordingly."

"Whatever you are thinking it isn't true, I have been taking my medicine, I have been staying in my cell, and yes, I will sit here and listen to every word you say. There's proof of it."

"Yes, just like there's proof of the smiling man that attacked you in the bathrooms."

"What are you trying to say?"

"I'm saying that I have a difficult time trying to figure out what is the truth. You can tell me you've been taking your medication, and there is even video evidence of you doing so—"

"Exactly, cameras never lie."

"Yes, but you do."

"Doctor I'm telling the truth—"

"Well, then Mr. Valentini, if you're claiming that you have been truthful, you won't mind if I increase your medication dosage. Clearly the amount, I'm prescribing you now is ineffective?"

"... No, I wouldn't mind at all."

"Perfect, and you wouldn't mind getting blood tests to prove that you have indeed been taking your medication."

"What?"

"Was I not clear? If you have been taking your medicine, it should be in your system at this very moment. Getting a blood test would show that."

"I know, but I was recently in the treatment center, can't you just use information from the previous tests."

"We could, but what would that prove? That you were taking your medicine three weeks ago, sure, but I'm wondering about right now. Take the blood test now, and I may just believe you for once. Or are you refusing to take it?"

"No, I'm just— You can't send me down there."

"Technically, I could send you to treatment, regardless if you want to or not."

"Isn't there any other way?"

"Why certainly, I could move you to solitary confinement on Level 0, if that is what you prefer. We will be able to monitor you more closely and see if you're telling the truth."

"God, no, never again."

"Then, will you take the blood test?"

"... Goddamn..."

"Will you take the blood test, Mr. Valentini?"

"... Yes... Yes, I will, and I will take my medication as well."

"Great, I'll have you sent down right away. Thank you for your cooperation."

"You're welcome, Doctor."

Φ

It was cold in the medical room. It always held the chilling atmosphere of stale air, reeking the stench of old blood and chemicals that left a toxic taste on his tongue. The white artificial lights made the white walls and floor even more blinding, and illuminated his pale skin, which nearly matched the hue of the walls. It was difficult for him to recall the last time he stepped foot outside and bathed in the sun's rays, the absence of sunlight leading to his complexion to be a rather ghostly one. If the room itself was not sickening enough, the uncomfortable metal chair he was strapped to worsened his sickness, his wrists and ankles stung under the cold steel. He was stuck between which was worse, the chair or the restraint jacket. But after sitting in the chair for well over thirty minutes waiting to be pricked full of needles, the chair became the clear victor. His waiting soon came to an end when the door opened, and in came the physician followed by two of his assistants. The assistants carting in a trolley caring syringes, bandages, and alcohol along with other medical supplies; he only focused on the needles.

"I heard someone's been naughty." The physician chuckled. Seeing the smirk that adorned the physician's face, had him fighting back a glare; at least one person was glad to be here. "Sam's told me you haven't been taken your meds. Mr. Stefano, why would you ever want to do that? Don't you know the medicine we give you is to help quiet those voices in your head."

"The doctor is wrong; he's trying to make me seem like a liar. I have been taking my medication." He replied to the physician.

"Of course, you have. Well, today's test is going to reveal if you're telling the truth or not, isn't it?" The physician went behind him to the counters, and he heard running water from the sink's tap. "Oh, and sorry for the delay. One of my long-term patients decided to swallow batteries, and I had to get him to cough it up. The smell of battery acid and vomit mixed together was absolutely disgusting, poor guy probably won't be able to swallow anything for a few weeks."

"How could he have gotten batteries; I'm not even allowed to use pens?"

"Accidents happen. Some orderlies are forgetful after they leave a patient's room, leaving behind all manner of things: blood-soaked rags, pieces of broken glass, even a container of bleach once. I tell you unless you want a slow and painful death when you kill yourself, don't drink sodium hypochlorite. Rest in Hell, Thomas."

"I'll keep that in mind." The physician came back into sight, putting on a pair of latex gloves.

"You know how this goes, please no screaming, thrashing, biting, spitting, or any other disgusting behavior while being treated or more encouraging reinforcement shall be applied. If you have any issue, please address the leading physician, me." It was the same repetitive speech given to him before every treatment, he had not broken procedure for a long time, so it was useless to give him the noneffective lecture. He looked over to the assistants who were preparing the syringes and bandages, but he noticed something else on the trolley he had not seen before.

"What do you have there?" he asked, still eyeing the foreign substance.

"Oh, this," the physician picked up the small distinct container of a clear thick liquid. "I forgot to mention it. This is the new drug that was gifted to the asylum. It's supposed to be a stress-relieving agent given to treat patients during testing."

"What is it going to do to me?" he already felt horrible about taking the new drug; he was already taking enough medication was he not.

"Like I said, it's a stress-reliever. It's going to calm your nerves; I can tell you're on edge." He took a syringe from one of his assistants before filling it with the liquid drug. "This is gonna make you feel all better." The physician smiled, tapping the now filled syringe. "Now, would you please allow these fine gentlemen to aid me in injecting this shot?"

"I doubt I have a choice in the matter."

"You'd be right about that. Boys, if you would please." The assistants moved to stand at either side of the chair. He jerked back as sudden hands grabbed him around his head, keeping him still and tilting his head upwards. He only realized what was happening when he felt the rough leather be strapped around his nose and mouth. The brown muzzle hindered his breathing and irritated his facial scars as it was tightened around his head. "Sorry for the muzzle, but without it, you would most likely bite my friends' fingers off. Just like you did with the smiling man." He groaned from behind the muzzle, as the assistants kept his head turned to the side, exposing his neck. He involuntarily shuddered when he felt the cold, wet touch of an alcohol-drenched cotton ball press against the side of his neck.

"Don't flinch too much, you wouldn't want me to miss." He was unprepared for the needle that suddenly pierced into his neck; it was promptly followed by a fierce burning sensation, which caused his muscles to tense as the drug was forced into his bloodstream. It only lasted for a couple of seconds before the needle was pulled out, but the burning sensation still lingered; in fact, he could feel it begin to spread. His head was released, and he slouched in the chair as a sudden wave of dizziness fell upon him. It was challenging to move, he felt numb in his own body, yet he was still highly aware of his situation. He could hear his heart pounding slowly in his chest and his labored breathing through strained lungs. "See, doesn't that feel good." No, not in the slightest, it had him more on edge than anything else, but he struggled to speak, and if he could, he highly doubted he would be able to be understood with the muzzle distorting his words.

"Let's begin, shall we." He felt a rubber strip be tied tightly around his arm, followed by the moisture of an alcoholic wipe. The sharp point of the syringe's needle dragged down his arm, searching for the right place to plunge into his veins. "You're going to feel a little pinch." The physician said, sticking him with the needle. It was more than just a 'little pinch.' He felt the needle pierce and tear apart layers of skin and disrupt his bloodstream's natural flow. It felt akin to being stabbed with how the pain fiercely burned and traveled through his arm, his muscles flexed like a metal cord to stop the invading blade. He looked down at his arm, and he could see why it hurt so much. The needle was much larger than usual, and he was growing sick, seeing the amount of blood that would eventually fill the syringe. It was filling up unappealingly slow to the physician, and he let out a groan. "You have such tiny veins. I'm barely getting anything, maybe if I just…" he began to twist the needle in deeper, tearing through more skin and flesh in search of a proper vein. He hissed at the increased pain and stirring discomfort, and reflexively tried to flinch away, but he could barely lift a finger. Was the madman even pulling back the plunger?

"Still nothing, it seems. Fortunately, I have another idea since this is going oh so painfully slow. Boys hand me another syringe, would you please." He hardly had time to process what had been said before another needle was stabbed into his arm, it just as searing as the previous one. "Another, please." He cringed at the third needle and fought against the urge to close his eye. "Oh, I know there's more up there, give me another." The fourth had him biting his tongue. "Nearly perfect. Use the rest of them on the other arm, please and thank you." The assistants obeyed wordlessly, moving to his right before tying the tourniquet tight around his arm. The needles followed suit. "Ah, perfection. Since you are so stingy with your blood, we need to get innovative in the methods in which we extract it. If you have any grips, just tell me now?" he glared at the madman full of ire, which only made his grin widen.

"Don't be mad at me, Mr. Stefano. The person to be mad at is you, after all, you brought this upon yourself. Someone should have been a good patient and took their medicine." He wanted to beat the madman until he drowned in a pool of his own blood, but any intention to do so was foiled by the restraints. Even if they were gone, he could not have mustered the will to move his body with any reasonable force. It was as if he was an unmoving doll, stabbed and pierced with pins and needles for pure amusement. He was not affected by pain regularly, but his entire body had never been so sensitive before. He could feel every searing cut, piercing stab, and tearing of the skin as the "professionals" worked their magic. A nauseating sickness began to rise in the back of his throat, and is vision went white momentarily as they became overwhelmed by the blinding lights, and his whole body began to lock up.

It would be over; eventually, the maniacs would be given all the blood they wanted, and he would be able to go back to his room. But would that really be the end of it? He could be sent back down to this wretched place the next day, and the next day after that, spilling into the next week, month even. The world was cruel, he knew that, but why was he the one to never be spared a moment of its cruelty. Might have been the force of karma, him paying his dues, it could be the fact that he was simply caught and happened to be sent to this evil hell, or maybe he internally wanted retribution for his own actions and unknowingly punished himself. Whatever the reason may be, it did not matter. He would not be able to change anything if he knew the reason for it being anyway.

"You look tense, Mr. Stefano. I thought it would satisfy you to witness the sight of your own blood, seeing as you have masochistic tendencies." The madman chuckled. "Well, I guess the reliever only lasts for a few minutes. Not to worry, though, we have plenty." He reached over to the trolley and filled another syringe with the clear liquid; he did not even bother wiping down his neck before sticking the needle into him.

At that moment, a surge of his energy returned to him, ignoring the pain, he twisted his head away and tugged at his restraints. The resulting chaos ensued. The needle in his neck being torn out, spilling its contents, an assistant was caught off guard causing him to nearly fall over in fright, and multiple syringes become detached from their needles. They fell to the floor with a clatter, shattering on impact and staining the pristine white floor and the madman's coat with his crimson lifeblood.

"Goddamn you, look at what you've done! You're so overdramatic, were you hurting that bad?!" the madman shouted, throwing his hands into the air. For the first time since he entered the room, he appeared genuinely frustrated. "You ruined everything; you damn wretch. I hope you're proud of yourself, all of this has gone to waste because of you. My other patients are never as unruly as you, why is that?" The muzzle was harshly torn off his face, the rough edges irritating his skin further. He was able to breathe properly without a filter at least; he used this chance to speak:

"Whatever do you mean? I'm told I'm quite lovely to be around." He snickered.

"I'm sure they tell you a lot of nice things. I don't understand what they see in you up there, you're nothing, but a goddamn nightmare to deal with."

"You simply bring out the worst in me is all. I am certain you have that effect on a lot of people, it's not a mystery why everyone hates you. You're quite the pathetic excuse for a physician." The needles in his left arm were mercilessly torn out, leaving behind oozing holes of blood to leak down and mix with the puddle on the floor.

"Oh, just you wait and see you sick bastard." The madman spat in his face. "You thought that black abyss was hell. You'll only experience true hell once you're stuck down here with me. I'll—"

"Doctor Morris, there's been a code blue. You are needed in Sector Six on Level 0." The voice of an older woman came over the intercom. The man turned his attention over to the intercom with a scowl.

"Dammit, Peter must be having another episode." The man tossed the needles onto the trolley, and his demeanor changed quickly to one of professionalism. "Well, looks like your appointment has to be cut short today, but don't freight you were generous enough to provide the perfect number of samples." The physician pulled out the remaining needles in his arm, as well did the assistants. "We'll send the nurses in to clean you up a bit and take you back to your room. The results should be in later this week," the physician smirked at him. "I hope to see you very very soon, Mr. Stefano."

They were quick to rush out of the room, careful not to step on the shattered glass or his blood before they were replaced with garbed nurses and guards. The nurses were quick at their jobs, cutting the tight tourniquets off his arms, which was relieving as they had begun restricting blood flow, and he had nearly lost the feeling in his fingers. They cleaned the blood off his arms seemingly unfazed, before lazily wrapping gauze around them which instantly started to bleed through and stick a cotton band-aid on the injection points on his neck. Once their job was completed, they left for the guards to do theirs who unstrapped him from the metal chair only to restrain him into a wheelchair.

He loathed the treatment center.

When he was wheeled at the room, he was met with the familiar face of an orderly. One, he did not prefer, in fact.

"You don't look happy to see me. Hope that doesn't mean you want to kill me." The orderly nervously chuckled.

"It's just you?"

"Yeah, well, David is talking with the doc and Jacks "attending" to another patient, so your stuck with Ward and me for the time being." He was slightly unnerved when he could not see the orderly anymore as he went behind him to push the wheelchair. "Please, don't be trouble. Let's be honest here if you were to try to kill me you would... actually succeed, and then you would just be in more trouble than you already are; it's a lose-lose situation. So, please refrain from any violent urges, and we'll have a safe journey. Alright?"

"Let's move, Isaac, we're on a time crunch." The guard said, already walking down the hall.

"Right!" the orderly began rolling him down the hall beside the guard. As they went, the chilling air follows, though it was different. It was still uncomfortably cold, but the scent of blood was much more potent, and it only added to the bitter taste in the air. The echoing sounds of screeching animals and loud crashing accompanied to the ambiance. It was too stale for his tastes.

"Mr. Hayes, I want to ask you a question."

"Who me?" the orderly asked, surprised.

"Yes, you, is that strange?"

"O-Oh no sir, it's just that you never talk to me, can't even remember the last time you did. What did Morris do to you to actually make you want to talk to me?"

"If you simply took the time to look at my arms, it would be quite obvious, or do you need to be strapped down to that damn chair to figure it out."

"Sorry, forgot Morris has a streak of being, "innovative". Can't really believe he's still here after the mass revision... So, what were you saying before?" he internally groaned. There was a reason he did not speak with the idiot.

"I'm going to ask you a question, so pay attention if you can… You are one of the men present in my morning and night routines, correct."

"Yes? That would be correct."

"You are also one of the men who are there when I am given my medication, correct?"

"Yes, I am. Why would you ask me that exactly?"

"Don't question, I just want you to listen, you're doing well so far. Let's see how good you use your ears on this question. You are also one of the men there when I ingest said medication, correct?"

"Technically, yes—"

"So, technically, you would see me taking my medication, yes?" There was a pause before the orderly answered with uncertainty.

"W-Well, I can't say if I do or if I don't really."

"Why, can't you find an answer? It's a simple question, I thought even you would be able to answer it."

"It's not that I can't, it's that I need time to properly answer that question."

"Fine I'll put it in simpler terms for you, do you believe I take my medicine?"

"Uh… so are you asking for my opinion on the matter?"

"Isaac, stop talking to him, you're just going to end up making a fool of yourself." The guard interjected into the conversation as he turned his steely gaze over to him. "I know where you're trying to get at, Valentini. Do you think it really matters to the doctors if we tell them that you take your pills? Our word means almost as much as yours. It won't do a damn thing if we say you're not a liar, they don't care."

"Can't blame me for trying." He glanced over at the guard and his looming frame. "But, Mr. Ward, I must ask you, how come I'm being accused of this now? You know something is amiss here."

"No, there isn't. This is coming to light now because you're starting to show signs of your psychosis returning; your sense of reality is waning, and it shows. If you didn't want this to be an issue, you shouldn't have told the doctor you heard voices. The high functioning parts of your psychopathy can only protect you for so long before that, too, will degrade. I don't know why that Castellanos guy continues to come here. He's not going to be able to get anything from you, you can hardly remember to keep your mouth shut."

"He never mentioned getting anything from me." He glared at the guard. "What do you mean by that?"

"I'm trying to say that your "memories" are… something of value to him."

"How?"

"I'm certain you can just ask him about it the next time he visits. Though I think someone else is coming to visit you. Wasn't notified who it was, but just know you'll see a new face."

"It's most likely just a psychiatrist coming to psychoanalyze me, seeing as I'm not getting any "better," and the great doctor can't help me all on his lonesome."

"Maybe." They came to the end of the hall to an elevator. The guard swiped his card through the scanner, and he pressed the upwards arrow.

"Mr. Ward, I have one final thing to ask you." He stated as they waited for the elevator.

"Ask it now, cause once we get in the elevator, I'll stop entertaining questions."

"All the people who are coming to visit… do you think they'll be able to help me?" The guard returned his gaze to him, his grey eyes scrutinizing.

"You want me to be honest?" he nodded, and the guard continued to stare. He briefly wondered what could have been going through the guard's head, he did not have to wonder for long.

"No." The guard turned back to the elevator doors as they opened. "I don't think anyone can."

"Hm, that's the only thing you have said, that I believe." They went into the elevator in silence.

Φ

The restraint jacket was even more troublesome than before. He had initially thought he would adjust to its constant presence, but it only got worse by the day, causing his skin to feel horribly irritated, and his lack of mobility made him stir crazy. It felt so wrong. It would be the least of his worries in a minute as he waited for his new visitor to arrive. He hated waiting almost nearly as much as whoever was coming to see him. He did not even know who precisely was coming to visit, but he had already felt an intense hatred for the person. He assumed it was probably because they were not Sebastian. It had been too long since he had last seen his masterpiece, and the need to view him grew stronger by the day. He knew the newcomer would not satisfy him with their presence as Sebastian would. The man promised to come back, and he expected him to keep it.

He stopped himself from thinking of such things and decided he needed to keep himself entertained. Usually, he would take the time to "sketch" on his desk, but seeing as it was impossible without his hands, he had to resort to other forms of entertainment. With nothing but silence lingering in the air, he filled the void with his voice. He closed his eye and began to hum the song in his head. It was reserved only for when he was in the washrooms, but he was willing to make an exception for today. It was relaxing to hear the melody trapped in his head aloud, a soft toon to loosen his tense muscles and calm the racing thoughts filling his mind. He was able to find comfort in the melody and put his worries to ease as the song vibrated through him.

It was much louder than before and had an echo that was hardly heard. It was strange at first but became much more alarming when the echoes became louder to the ear. He peeked open his eye but saw no one else. Why did the voices come at the most inopportune of times? But this voice was different than most. It was male for one, and much clearer than all the others. He let his voice quiet down, as he went softer the echoes only became louder, no not louder, closer. He opened his eye entirely and sat up.

Footsteps soon accompanied the melody; they were coming down the hallway, and he looked at the door as they drew closer. It was unsettling as he could not decipher whether the voice was genuine or just a figment of his imagination. He would soon find out as the footsteps ended at the door. The melody ended as well. He gazed on in anticipation as the electronic lock beeped and the door opened.

"I thought you would have forgotten that song." The same male voice said clear as day. A man walked into the room, and he sat stock-still. For the first time, while in this horrible place, he hoped he was hallucinating, a fabled dream would have been much more preferable than the horrors of reality. But no, he was not dreaming, by the expression of the entering orderly's face, he could see the man as well. Said man who continued to walk closer to the glass, his dark brown hair combed back to present a face that was similar but different to his own. It held more age, but still had the attraction of youth and the bright eyes were a stark contrast to his dark attire and black gloves. The irises were a tantalizing green that held the hue of the ocean under a setting sun. "I'm glad you remembered it after all this time, and hopefully…" The man grinned.

"You will remember me too, Stef."

The faintest parts of his memory arose that very moment as it weaved together to create a story's structure. Though it had many holes, he was still able to piece together its most impactful parts.

"Oh, Bruno, I do. How could I ever forget you?" He smiled back at the man. "It's such a pain, though, out of all the things I remember, I have to remember a deadman." The man's grin left him, and the bright lights of his eyes turned to ice.

"Is that how you choose to greet me? Whatever happened to your manners, did you lose them along with your eye? You look absolutely horrid." His own smile vanished.

"I lack manners? I was going to ask, 'If you had come to tell me I'm an uncle,' but I decided not to because I'm polite." His brother's gaze hardened. "Oh, no little brats to call your own, isn't that a shame."

"Ah, Mr. Bruno if you need any assistance please—"

"Yes, I know, you informed me already." His brother cut off the orderly. "You may leave us be."

"A-alright, sir." The orderly left the room quickly, leaving them alone together.

"No need to be so rude. I actually don't despise that one."

"Stefano, please, we both know that doesn't matter. You would happily murder him if you had to, whether you liked him or not." His brother, correctly, remarked, grabbing the metal chair. "Like when you so happily murdered that Lewis girl, right?" His brother sat down, never breaking his cold stare.

"Oh, but it was so much more than murder. I used what she had so graciously given me to create a grand masterpiece. It was art, she was art."

"You say that with no remorse."

"Why would I be remorseful for creating such a magnificent work of art? That is as if I asked you if you regretted any pieces you had ever composed. It's rather rude. Speaking of your music, how did that go for you? You must have had a great time, being a 'famous' composer before you decided to end it all abruptly and leave the limelight. Did you forget to tell me that you would disappear from the face of the earth as well? I thought you were dead."

"I thought the same of you. You know, I felt some sort of happiness finding out you were still alive, but you do not know how quickly that sweet euphoria turned bitter, when I found out what you had become. The disappointment was overwhelming."

"I guess we're both not satisfied by each other's accomplishments. If you are so disappointed in me, why visit? I'm certain there are plenty of other things you could be spending your precious time with." His brother took in a deep breath and seemed to try and calm himself.

"Stef, I'm not disappointed in you, but what you are. Out of all the horrible things you could have been, why a serial killer? I came here to at least find some answers."

"Answers to what?"

"To how you have been." He laughed, it felt good to chuckle and let himself smile although his brother looked sullen.

"You want to know how I've been? Have you seen this place? Just by looking around, you know how I have been being trapped in here. You even said it yourself, "I look horrid." And you would be correct."

"And your life in Krimson City is so much more desirable.? How could that have been? Life becomes so tiresome when you have to constantly keep secrets."

"Then you don't know how to live life then. Sadly, yes, I was unable to take credit for my hard work. However, I made certain my art was a secret to no one."

"Look where that kind of lifestyle got you, your ambition corrupted your common sense. This world is not made for the esoteric artist."

"True, but I was given the opportunity to live in a world where my art was accepted." His brother gave a heavy sigh.

"I'm aware. In a town named Union, yes? But how does that matter now? By your own words, Union is no longer in existence. You constantly keeping it in the present does nothing but hurt you."

"If it hurts me, I don't feel it."

"I guess so. But I'm certain it hurt when the reviews for your art came in. I know your memory is screwed, but can you remember how much the people loathed your art?" He stopped himself from spitting back an insult and looked away from his brother's gaze.

"Yes, there were many philistines and ignorant critics, who could not see the beauty in what I had created, but that did not stop me, did it? The euphoria that comes with the art of creation is one that triumphs any otherworldly pleasure. You could not understand the gratification I felt as I created my pieces." He smiled as the lovely memories flashed through his mind. "I never knew how malleable and beautiful the human body is, until I took it apart with my own hands and took in the essence of blood and flesh. It seeped into my skin, the remarkable smooth texture of flesh between my fingers, and how I could taste every bit of it on my tongue. What was created in the aftermath was always true beauty. I had reached my life-long goal of becoming an artist, and I was beautiful." His brother did not say anything, only continued to look on with a cold glare though it was slowly melting.

"You did accomplish your goal, didn't you?" his brother breathed. "You're an artist, Stefano Valentini... Do you think Father would be proud of you?" His smile instantly faded, and he turned back to his brother. His lovely memories were replaced with the distorted remnants of past visions, visions he had not seen in years.

"Yes… he would be proud of what I have done, of what I have become." He hated the uncertainty in his own voice, his brother heard it as well.

"Of course, he would. If he were here, he would be showering you with more praise than he has ever had, right? Because if Father saw you as you are now, he would only see the artist you are. Oh, then you can only imagine Mother's enthusiasm when she lays eyes upon you."

"There's no need to speak like that. With all I have achieved, they wouldn't matter to her; she would be proud of me." His brother laughed this time, not as heavy as his own, but a soft laugh that curled his lips into a gentle smirk.

"Please, I know that was hard for you to say. It is quite pitiful. I leave for a few years, only to come back and find everyone is either six feet under or lost their minds. You fall in the latter sadly." his smirk was short-lived. "I knew coming to see you would be painful, but it's agony..." His brother's voice went low to barely a whisper, but he could still hear every word. "You don't know how much it hurts me to see you like this. I didn't realize you were gone this far... That bastard Sebastian was right."

"What did you say?" He instantly turned to look his brother in his eyes. His brother looked away. "What name did you just say, Bruno?!" He shouted, sitting up suddenly, not paying attention to how the quick motion revealed his scars. His brother glanced back at him for a moment.

"Stefano, there's no need for screaming. I heard you just fine."

"And I heard you just fine as well. You know who Sebastian Castellanos is, don't you? How?!" His brother continued to stay silent. "Tell me now!"

"You won't like what I have to say."

"You think I would care? I have been lied to for so long that the truth is the only thing that can give me relief. Tell me how you know him. He is," he felt the anger in his voice seep away. "… what keeps me looking forward to another day, in this Hell. Please, Bruno." His brother looked him in the eyes, a stoic glare meeting his pleading gaze.

"I always hated when you looked at me like that…" his brother's eyes momentarily glanced to the side at the security camera, he sighed slowly looking back. "Yes, I do indeed know him." It had been a while since he was spoken to in his native language. It was refreshing and had him deeply intrigued in his brother's word as he spoke in a quiet tone. "I know he comes here to visit you and why he does so. You're certain you want me to say more?"

"Yes, I am. I want answers, just as you did from me."

"… He's not some simple 'guy' who has come to visit you and ask you questions all day. I don't know if he told you his profession."

"He wouldn't answer me when I asked."

"Do you have a fleeting idea of why that may be?"

"Don't play games with me. Tell me what you know."

"Ah, watch your tone. You were the one begging for an answer. I do not have to tell you anything, but I am. Be grateful. Now use that spiteful tongue of yours to answer me." He felt his anger returning.

"I don't know, maybe because he wants to keep something from me."

"See, that wasn't too hard. Whatever could he be keeping from you?"

"That's what you're supposed to tell me. He could be hiding anything, I want to believe he knows me, but… I hate that I am beginning to doubt my own beliefs. I know I'm right, but at times it feels like the world is telling me that I'm wrong."

"You are trying so hard to stay in denial. Your delusions are so blinding that they are becoming more and more difficult to view. That is why you want Sebastian. He is the only delusion left that you could stand to look at."

"That isn't true."

"Not true? Why would he even come to a place like this?"

"Why wouldn't he?"

"Stef, the man is a private detective." His heart skipped a beat. "The purpose of his job is to investigate and solve crimes on a more personal level. It even involves interviewing the perpetrators of the crime itself if it is needed." His brother tried to hide a smile. "You appear shocked, why else would you believe he would come to see you? To have a lovely chat and get to know one another."

"No… He said he came to help me; he wants me to remember."

"So, the only reason he wants you to remember certain events, is to "help" you to get better. You believed him?"

"I want to. I thought we…" he slumped back down onto his bed. "We knew—"

"Are you going to say, you 'know each other'? Ha!" his brother chuckled no longer able to control his grin. "Are you that desperate for someone to care about you, that you're willing to believe this stranger knows you personally, you of all people? You're either stupid or insane."

"He's not a stranger." The strength in his voice returned. "We know each other from our time in Union. He knows who I am, and I know who he is."

"Insane it is then. You lose yourself to the lies within your own mind."

"I'm not the one lying. They all are!"

"I've already heard plenty of your nonsensical ramblings to know who speaks the truth. Unfortunately, it is not you."

"He does know me. He knows me more than you ever will!"

"Enough of this, Stefano." His brother's smile quickly turned into a scowl. "He doesn't know you, and you don't know him. You are sick!"

"No, I know the truth!"

"You have psychosis, amnesia, delusions, and a high level of psychopathy to concoct the festering disease eating you from the inside out. Why can't you see what is becoming of you?! You are destroying yourself!"

"That doesn't matter! I am not dying, my heart still beats. I'm not a Neanderthal, I have control."

"You are not in control of anything. Look around you, Stefano. You got caught, and now you are stuck rotting in this damn hell until you are nothing but skin and bones. You lost any semblance of control or pride once they locked you in here. You no longer have control. You are no longer an artist."

"I am an artist! No one can ever take that away from me. I worked my entire life to become one, and I will be an artist until the day I die. You say such rueful things because you are envious of my stature. Where I am wholeheartedly determined to my craft, you gave up halfway and became a worthless nobody. That is what you are, Bruno! You are a nobody, you will die a nobody while I will be remembered as the greatest photographer, Stefano Valentini!"

His uplifted posture instantly crumbled at the sudden crack of a fist smashing into glass, creating an intrusive vibration that caused him to curl in on himself. He looked on shocked as his brother stood, curled fist still in the same place it had struck the glass, though there was no ire in his eyes which had been present moments before. Hopelessness was what filled the sea-green depths.

"How quickly the soul turns dark in the absence of light." His brother's tone was soft as he spoke. "Stefano, I have realized that seeing you like this, corrupted and vile… I wish you had remained dead to me."

He chose not to respond. The tense silence was broken by the sound of the metal door opening.

"I apologize for the interruption, but Mr. Bruno, your visitation time is up." The orderly in the doorway said. His brother turned to face the orderly; by the orderly's scared reaction, his brother's expression must have been unkind.

"I was told I had longer, you cannot just decide to end the visitation early."

"W-Well, Mr. Bruno, we um, we have policies put in place if we must end a visitation early."

"What would those policies be?"

"You're not allowed to piss off the patients, sir." The guard from behind the orderly spoke up.

"What my colleague is saying is that one of our policies is that if a patient is in clear distress during a visitation, we are required to end it." His brother groaned.

"A warning would have been preferable."

"Can't always get what you want, sir." The guard retorted. "You coming willingly or not?"

"Please excuse him, allow us to escort you out." His brother scoffed and looked back at him. He did not say a word, only scrutinized him with his ocean green eyes before turning his back to him.

"I hope you enjoyed your visit, Mr. Bruno. St. Eden Mental Asylum wants to thank you –"

"Don't thank me." His brother stopped in front of the orderly, who looked drastically smaller compared to his tall form. "You do not mean it. None of you mean to do any good." His brother glared at the guard. "You will wish I would do good, soon enough." His brother shouldered past them with the guard close behind him. The orderly looked back at him for a second. He only offered a kind smile before closing the door, leaving him alone in silence. He did not speak for the rest of the day.

Φ

He was about to create his most brilliant masterpiece.

It had taken him much time and effort to come up with and create the perfect setting and lighting, string together the ideal demise for such a persistent adversary, and the final pose he shall make in death. It was going to be glorious. The anticipation to wait for his soon to be creation to arrive rose with every beat of his heart. As he waited, he gazed upon the myriad of photographs hung on the wall in front of him; they depicted his strengths in the realm of artistic expression, and it was a great refresher before he would create again. He had spent a grand amount of his precious time planning out this creation, even though it was sudden with the change in his original plan.

It did not take him long to decide to betray the Father. Their ideals were not aligned, and their end goals contrasted with each other. The moment he decided to keep the CORE for himself, he could feel the eyes of the Father loom over him, judging him. The Father himself had not come for him, most likely due to the fact he had the CORE and would have most likely killed him on the spot if he had confronted him in person. But he knew the Father himself was too cowardly to make such a move. Phycological manipulation and persuasive trickery were the Father's means of overpowering a foe; he was grateful to say that with the power of the CORE, the Father's mind games to him were just that, games. He was bathing in the CORE's abundant energy every moment, and his power was evolving into a force that would have put the Father's abilities to shame. He needed to be patient until that time came. In the meantime, he needed to work on his art.

The doors behind him creaked as they were opened, footsteps followed.

"No more running. No more games." His soon to be masterpiece spoke with his rich voice, it enkindling his artistic drive. He could not wait any longer to hear him scream.

"Agreed." He replied, turning his head to the side. Turning around to face his opponent, he smirked. "You're beginning to bore me." Music filled the photographer's domain, violins strung up a crescendo, and the cellos and bases brought together the thrumming harmony to create the uplifting serenade. Gripping his photographer's camera and artists dagger, he gestured the weapon out in front of him. "Your death will be art." The air around him sparked with azure flames as he teleported deeper within the walls of his art. "It's time to put a signature on it."

The battle between artist and medium began. The first rush of adrenaline hit him when he was finally able to slash his blade into the man's subtle flesh, the smell of fresh blood and the groan of agony was all too intoxicating. He wanted more. Teleporting in a myriad of patterns, he was able to home in on his victim and perform the ritual of every great artist, putting together the pieces of his masterpiece.

His favorite attack method was, capturing his foe in time and getting up close and personal with him. That was when the rush within him was at its peak; he could see every expression of pain the man made, and the look of burning fire in his eyes sent shivers down his spine every time. He stabbed, slashed, even throwing his dagger across the room to hit his victim to make the tantalizing scene of a struggling man fighting tooth and nail to save his life. It was glorious.

Until the first bullet stung his shoulder. It had caught him off guard, coming out of his teleportation only to be met with a bullet that buried itself into his flesh. It did not matter; he had had previous works of art try to fight him before; all of them became his art at the end of their struggles. However, this man fought back with more rigor than any of his previous creations, and it became irksome after the first few bullets, but seething anger began to overwhelm his pleasure and extinguish his rush. His rage boiled over after a sudden shotgun blast caught him in the gut. It was the first in a long time he found himself forced to his knees before an opponent. The pain that followed was excruciating as his aperture burned with a furious fire and flicked a blue light as if crying out in pain. He instinctively put a hand over his eye, he could feel it pulse underneath his touch.

"I've had enough of this." He threw away the original image of what he had wanted his masterpiece to look like, he did not care about intricacies anymore. "Prepare to die!" He erupted into blue flames as the room around them was torn away to make way for the Aperture, his humungous tentacles already taking over the surroundings. No, he did not care about details, an indistinguishable pile of gore and entrails would be a much more favorable end for the Philistine. "There'll be nothing left of you when I'm done."

He unleashed everything he could against the Neanderthal. The Aperture, attacking first though his strikes, were clumsy and had the accuracy of a blind archer. He was destroying more artworks than wounding the foe. He took matters into his own hands shortly after. His teleportation was erratic, and the strikes with his blade frantic as his desperation rose. The explosive bombs he scattered over the battlefield aided in pushing the neophyte into a corner for him to charge and drive his dagger into as many times as possible. But no matter how many times he struck the man, he always found a way to get back up and fire bullet after bullet at the artist. Many hitting him, the crossbow bolts hurdled at him caused more harm when he was to slow to evade a strike, though the smoke bolts were more annoying than anything. Providing cover for his adversary to strike him from within the grey mist. A normal man would have been dead by now with his injuries, yet his body still fought with what dying strength it had; his animalistic instinct to survive kept adrenaline pumping through his veins and the shock needed to handle the growing pain from his grievous wounds. It all was beginning to take its toll on him.

He was losing. He knew it, the Aperture knew it, on another plane of existence, the Guardians and his Obscura knew it as well. He had to live. He could not die here, not like this, and not by the bastard savage that dared to destroy his works and spit in the face of high artistry. As he was shot with another piercing bullet, he wondered if the CORE could feel his pain, his fear. He momentarily reached out to her, and a faint picture of her glanced across his aperture; she was where he left her, the base-level theatre. She had wandered out of the lobby and into the stage room, standing on the steps of the aisle. She stared at the stage with her bright blue eyes full of unease as she waited for his return. So, she could feel his fear. When the image cleared away, he was met with a shotgun blast to the chest, a blast that made his entire body go numb. It was pointless to try and stay up after the attack, as his exhausted and battered body gave out and collapsed to the floor.

He was dying. He could feel it now, in his bones, and what remained of his slowly beating heart. He no longer had the power or strength to command the Aperture already knowing his loss, gave a fading rumble as he closed his fading blue lens and sunk into the abyss of nothingness. All his creations were connected to him; they existed through him; as he died so did, they. The Guardians began to tear apart at the seams, cackling as their heads fell from their perch, wicked smiles still on their faces. His Obscura held on the longest, her cries and wails being the most painful as she thrashed her rapidly decaying body before she gave one final cry and collapsed in a heap of dead flesh and wires. She would have taken a picture of herself if she could have. The only being he felt tied to was the CORE, even though he felt the grasp he had of her waning, he could not see her anymore, only the bloody red tint that covered his vision. A disgusting pit formed at the bottom of his stomach, the thought of the wretched Philistine having control over her, made him sick. He had planned so much to do with her.

"I had so much left to create. You've destroyed my legacy." He groaned at the saddening thought. Even more saddening was the look of disdain in the eyes of his supposed to be masterpiece as he stood over his bloody form. He did not care that his scars were showing. "Look at me. You've made me into a masterpiece." He reflexively went for his camera, it was missing. "Must record it. If only I had my camera. Where did it go?" He could only stare up at the ceiling as he felt the last remnants of his soul leave his body. The footsteps of his creator walked away to leave him to rot. He would have laid there for dead if it were not for the gleam in the periphery of his red-tinted vision. He smiled. "Still time…" he used the last of his strength to grab his camera and aim at the back of his masterpiece. "…for one last photo!" Looking through the viewfinder, he went to take his final photograph; to his shock instead of seeing the man's back, he was staring down the barrel of a gun. It fired. The surprise still caught on his face as the bullet went through his remaining eye and into his skull.

The world went dark as his soul was eviscerated.

It was pitch black, horrendously so; cold which could freeze spirits and a dampness which clung to the very air itself. He could not breathe, he could not see, nor hear or feel. It was an abyss of darkness that consumed every part of him. It was utterly awful. It would drive him mad certainly. It, in all its entirety, was a sin against reality.

It only lasted for a moment. The world was dark, until it suddenly sparked to life in a blinding light. He could finally breathe again. He felt his body once more, there was no pain, no aching, nor fear. He was alive. He was just dead a moment before, now he could feel the pulse of his heart beating steadily in his chest. Confusion set in, and before questions could be formed, the bright light disappeared as quickly as it had appeared. He was more stunned than confused when his vision finally cleared. He was standing in front of a wall of his photographs, he gazed upon the myriad of photographs hung on the wall in front of him; they depicted his strengths in the realm of artistic expression; it would be a great refresher before he would create again.

"Che cosa?" he gasped baffled. He was standing in the place where he died. Or did he die? Had he unintentionally used the CORE's power and created a scenario in his head? That made little sense. If he had created that mental reality, why would he make himself die? The room got a little warmer, and the brief spark of amber flames poisoned his vision. The scent of smoldering embers filled the air as the photographs in front of him became scorched by an invisible hand, leaving words in its wake.

Are you prepared for Hell, sinner?

He nearly spat on the writings but relented from doing such a thing to his own works even if they were already stained by the Father's mind. He reached out to the CORE, but the string that held their connection was nonexistent. Or rather had been cut. He regretted not ending the Father first.

The doors behind him creaked as they were opened, footsteps followed.

"No more running. No more games." He scoffed. Fine, if that is how the Father wanted to play, then so be it. He would slaughter the Philistine, then go and butcher the Father.

"Agreed." He turned with a look of fury burning in his eyes. "You're beginning to bore me." The man looked exactly the same as before, though his eyes seemed vapid. He would kill him this time. Pulling out his dagger and camera, he went to work. He immediately threw the dagger at the man who ducked in response, but instead of running away to find his groundings, which he had done after every one of his attacks, his opponent charged him, gun drawn. With a thought, he teleported to the other side of the room, having retrieved his dagger, and taking out his camera.

"Smile for the camera." He took the shot just as the opponent had turned to face him, freezing him in a block of time. The blue haze of his trap had no effect on himself as he came before his opponent. The strike of his dagger pierced the heart, and he twisted it for good measure. It all was just as exhilarating as the previous times, though something was off. The wound and its smell of blood was still the same, even the direction in which the blood splattered was similar. No, it was his foe. Every time he had struck the man, he had given out a cry or groan of pain and physically recoiled. This time, his opponent gave no reaction to his stab wound, he did not even flinch as his very own blood splashed across his face. That was not the only difference. Looking deep into the intrusive brown eyes, a cold bottomless pit had taken place where a roaring fire should have been. The look gave him chills, but not any that proffered pleasure. It was unsettling. He proceeded, nonetheless.

"Have you become that accustomed to my dagger?" he snickered. "Or do you just take pleasure in it?" His taunt was met with only silence. He did not take any joy in this, if he wanted to have a dull experience creating his art, he would have used clay or marble. Scoffing, he went to pull out his dagger and prepare another, more fatal, strike. Before he could, he was stopped by a hand that gripped the wrist holding the dagger. His first instinct was to teleport, but he also brought the stoic-faced mongrel with him, who instantly grabbed his other wrist.

He immediately struggled to getaway. The mongrel had not wielded this strength before. The iron grip only got tighter, it was a miracle he was able to wrench out his dagger out of the man's chest, but it resulted in his other wrist being twisted around. A sharp pain shot up his arm at the unnatural angle, and he was forced to turn to try and ease the pain. Unable to regain his bearings, he was turned around with his arm twisted behind his back and his own dagger being forced towards his throat. A course of adrenaline rushed through him, and he instantly began to struggle in his attacker's hold; he tried pushing back against the hand, pulling his hand towards his neck, which held the blood-stained dagger. It was a fruitless struggle as the blade only got closer.

"Son of a bitch!" He cursed in frustration as he continued to thrash, to his credit, he was able to free his hand from behind his back and aid his other in trying to stop the blade. However, this allowed his attacker a free hand, though it did not come to try and shove the dagger into his neck. An unexpected stabbing pain pierced into his abdomen, he could not see it, but he could feel the warmth of his own blood begin to seep down his side. What he presumed to be a knife was then dragged across his stomach. He kept himself from screaming as the weapon's serrated edge ripped through his guts with ease. It promptly repeated the exact same motion in reverse, intestines, and bodily fluids made themselves present to the outer world. He had held steady, but the abrupt shock of severe pain caused his arms to falter.

The dagger sunk into his throat with a wet squelch. He screamed, rather he tried to, but all that came out was a strangled gargle as blood began to fill his slit windpipe. Panic overtook him, and he fiercely clawed at his neck protectively though it was already too late. The burning that sparked in his chest was akin to drowning, and he was, drowning in his own lifeblood, only able to hack and seize. He could see his blood this time, covering the blade of his dagger. In the reflection of silver steel, he could see his murderer's eyes. They were the eyes of the dead. Anemic and vacant every moment, as his soul left him through bleeding wounds. He was dying all over again, and he could not do anything to save himself. The lifeless eyes glaring into him were the last thing he saw before being sent back to the black abyss.

He gasped for air, as life returned to him. He was standing in front of the wall once more.

Are you prepared for Hell, sinner?

The doors behind him creaked as they were opened, footsteps followed.

"No more running. No more games." He grit his teeth, and his hands curled into fists. He would not die again.

"Agreed, filthy bastard." He had no need to turn around to know where his opponent was standing, he teleported directly behind him in a blaze of blue flames, dagger held high, posed to strike. It might have been a cowardice move, attacking his foe from behind, but in the game of life and death, the only move cowardly would be falling to your knees and begging for mercy. His blade stuck straight into the mongrel's back, missing the crossbow and holster. He was able to pull it out as the man suddenly turned around, gun in hand. The fired bullet lodged between his ribs before he was able to teleport away; he came out of his teleport hunched over in pain and dagger less. Blood was what he tasted on his tongue as it dribbled from the corner of his mouth. His body felt more susceptible to injury and damaged with much ease than before, he was weaker, and he was convinced his assailant knew it as well. He heard footsteps racing towards him and glanced up to see said assailant sprinting towards him, shotgun at the ready.

"Damnit!" He franticly fumbled to bring out his camera and snapped a photo when the trigger was pulled. The man froze, but the shotgun shells continued on their trajectory. He instinctually teleported though not knowing where to as the bullets whizzed past where he stood moments before. With what came next, he would have preferred to have been shot by the shotgun. He only made one step before the most intense shock he had ever experienced shot through his entire body; sparks of electricity exploded around him. His opponent had previously laid one of these electricity traps, but never had it been so extensive that his skin visibly burned in areas, and his aperture cracked and shuttered.

It was all excruciatingly painful even though it only lasted for a few seconds, it left him a smoking charred mess that collapsed to the ground in a bloody heap. It pained him too much to move, let alone be able to stand back up. Through his blurry vision, he made out the outline of the man standing above him. With a numb body, he could barely feel the bullet shoot through his skull before he was thrown into darkness.

"No more running. No more games."

"Die, damn you!" he shrieked, rapidly spinning around, and creating a bomb that exploded between them. He was unharmed by the blast, but the menace was sent reeling backward into the wall. He did not want to give him a moment of reprieve, teleporting into the fading smoke he swung his dagger in great arks, striking flesh, and spraying blood into the air. As the smoke disappeared, so did his adversary, leaving him standing before the damaged wall. A moment of confusion was what he was granted before being rammed from behind. He was just able to turn himself around as his back was slammed into the blood-stained wall. He found himself again in a compromising position with a forearm crushing his windpipe and a gun aimed at his head, which he tried to take from the leveraging hand, to no avail. His leather gloves could be a nuisance at times. Through there was applied pressure on his throat, he was able to choke out:

"You're enjoying this, aren't you?" The response to his inquiry was a bullet to the chest, followed by a second shot to the head. Darkness.

Are you prepared for Hell, sinner?

No. No, he truly was not. He was unprepared for the cycle of death and rebirth that was as beautiful as it was wicked. Maybe in the past, he would have found the concept of being able to die a hundred deaths, and at the end of it all still stand breathing, desirable. However, after experiencing the true nature of death afflicted upon himself in so many gruesome ways, the very thought of waking up alive after having his throat slit would be utter hell, and it was. The never-ending loop of him engaging battle with his assailant only to be slain like an animal to wake up and repeat the same motions, was taxing. All the intense strain wore him down to the bone, though he still had enough awareness to realize that after each slaughter, he would awaken closer and closer to the time of his first death. He did not know what would happen when he reached that point, and it terrified him to find out. Naturally, he tried with all his might to end the madness.

He used every tactic he could think of to overcome his murderer; however, after dying for the twenty-sixth time, he realized the man had left his humanity behind for an unholily inhuman drive. Every move his adversary made was made with an unyielding determination to unmake him; the incomprehensible impulse resulted in cruelly calculated battle tactics and immoral strategies to all combine and break him down physically and mentally. While each and every attack sent his way tore him down bit by bit, the man seemed impassive to all assaults, no matter how great or pitiful. The man could be struck, but he did not cry, he could be engulfed in the fire of explosions and still stand unscathed, he could bleed like every other man, but he would not fall. There was no use in trying to oppose the unstoppable being, those who opposed the will of God only fell after all.

Awakening for the thirty-seventh time, he decided to run. Dodging past death incarnate, he made his way to the entrance door and threw them open. Death smiled back at him with a loaded gun and a finger on the trigger. Running became futile, he could not leave beyond the bounds of the gallery without the monster being behind every open door, and he would always find a way to catch up to him. He would tire, the man could not. He decided to hide after his fifty-third death. There were very few places to hide and the places where he could, the monster always found him, his malice always found him. The monster used his gun less often, utilizing his combat knife and bare hands; it had not been long since he was strangled with his own scarf. The experience taught him he preferred having his throat slit, it ended the suffering quicker. He removed his neckpiece after that, not that it stopped the monster's brutality and the time between kills shortening. He could barely stay alive for more than a minute before death found him once more, being rebirthed already wounded did not do him any justice. He knew his absolute death was getting nearer after every killing, that was what planted a pure gut-wrenching fear in his soul.

After his seventieth murder, he did not try to fight, he did not try to run, he did not try to hide. He collapsed to his knees, defeated, and glared up into cold eyes.

"No…" his voice hoarse and low, quivered. "No more. You win." No glare of mercy flashed through the monster's dead eyes. A bullet to the head.

He found himself already kneeling.

"I've told you you've won. You don't have to kill anymore." A crossbow bolt through the chest.

"Are you doing this to make yourself feel stronger, you—" An axe through the crown of his head.

"No more! Stop, I beg of you!" his neck was snapped.

He threw himself forward, clinging to the monster's belt. He did not reach for any weapons as he continued looking upwards, pleading.

"Please stop, I-I'll do whatever you want me to. Just please end this." A knife across his throat.

He fell onto his back, the man standing above him, a pistol his weapon of choice. It was nearing the end; he could feel the final death lingering over him. After this death, he would only have one last chance at life before… nothingness.

"I'm sorry, please, mercy, I beg of you." A bullet through his aperture.

"Please—" a final bullet through the eye.

Death came in the flash of a gun blast. As he expected, he could not move a single muscle on his own accord, his breath was taken from him, and it was unrelentingly cold…but it was not a black abyss.

The vibrant blue haze that enveloped his world made everything around him freeze, he could see the blood from his gunshot wound gush in a crimson fountain which complemented its cerulean background; it was frozen in time, like a photograph. He could feel the bullet slowly make his way through his skull and into his brain, he could feel all the pain that came with it. Through the splitting ache in his head, the man standing above him crouched down to his level, their eyes met. The man's eyes were cold, but not lifeless. There was indeed a life within the rich depths, but it was a flame that should not have belonged to the man. A hand that had been used numerous times to cause him harm, gently caressed his scarred cheek, he could feel its delicate touch past the pain. Staring into his bleeding eyes, the man made a singular facial expression. A mocking smirk that strengthen the fire smoldering in his eyes.

"Are you prepared for Hell, Stefano?"

"Stefano, are you bleeding?"

"Stefano, why won't you get up?"

"Stefano?"

"Stefano, wake up, you're bleeding!"

He opened his eye as he reawakened. Breath and feeling were restored to him, though he was still chillingly cold. He first noticed two things as he came to lying in his cell room bed. First, being the figure standing over him that made him flinch backward startled, even though it seemed to try and calm him, and second, the annoying itch of something in his eye in which blinking did nothing to help. Reflexively he tried to scratch the eye but was reminded that his limbs were restrained.

"Please, don't pull on the restraints, Mr. Valentini. Sorry, I didn't mean to startle you." His dreary vision cleared, and he was able to recognize the familiar face of the orderly. "How are you feeling? Do you have any head pain?" in his drowsy state, it took him longer to reply.

"Why are you asking?"

"Please just answer the question. Do you have any head pain?" A bullet to the head.

"… No. I don't believe so." This did not seem to reassure the orderly. "What's wrong?" The orderly looked reluctant to answer.

"Well… We came in for your morning routine, and your eye was—"

"Don't answer him." The voice of the guard came from out of his sight. "Move, David, were getting ready to transfer him to the treatment center."

"No!" rid of any drowsiness, he tried to sit up, energized with adrenaline.

"Please calm down, Mr. Valentini. We're trying to help you." The orderly attempted to calm him again, putting a hand on his shoulder to coax him back down.

"Liar!" he snapped, the orderly recoiled. "You're just going to hurt me in the end. You always do, why lie?" a pained expression crossed the orderly's face.

"I don't want to."

"David, I said move!" the orderly was pulled out of his field of vision and replaced with the guard who pushed him harshly back onto the bed. "Fight me, Valentini, I dare you, see what fucking happens. You'll be put into treatment for another reason." He could have fought back, with all the adrenaline pumping through him it would have been easy to put up a struggle. He did not fight, or run, or hide. It would all be pointless in the end. He laid back down of his own volition and waited to be transferred to the Treatment center.

Are you prepared for Hell, Stefano?

Φ

"You gave the orderlies quite the scare this morning Mr. Valentini. The last time we found blood on you while you were in your room was when you cut yourself with your nails… How is your eye?"

"… It's wonderful."

"Great to hear. Dr. Morris has worked with us for a long time, he is an excellent physician despite his flaws, which there are many of. Wouldn't you agree?"

"… I couldn't agree more."

"Without him, many of our patients would be uncared for. Without a numerous of Eden's staff members, many of our patients would be dead. Including you."

"… Oh, really?"

"Yes, indeed."

"... Why help?"

"Well, everyone here has their reasons for helping the sick, but mine can be seen as asinine. From my perspective… you are wrong, Mr. Valentini. Wrong in that you were born in such a way that any moral values a right human being would have, you lack. Which makes you wrong. Your wrongness is what urges you to be such a despicable work of nature, I have rarely seen it so concentrated in a single being before, it is heinous. But, I am not certain I can blame you for that. You did not ask to be born wrong, so I should not fault you for it. Many others would, you saw during the trial how many people wanted you dead; strangers, prosecutors, the victims' families, but not me. No, I do not want to kill you; I should fix you, make all your wrongs, right. So, by Eden's staff members and I taking the initiative to fix you, we save you from a fate worse than death at the hands of a mob blinded by hate and anger… A 'thank you' would be an appropriate response."

"… Thank you."

"… you seem off today."

"…Do I?"

"Yes, you're not drawing. You appear to be almost finished as well. It's not like you to leave a drawing unfinished like this… What did you dream about last night?"

"… Something lovely, can you believe that?"

"You're going to be difficult today, aren't you?... Did you know nobody really knows the purpose of dreams? Scientists and doctors have spent decades trying to figure out why humans dream when they sleep, all had no precise answer. However, they have found out what influences a person's dream: food, health, stress, emotions. All can have an effect on what you dream about at night. If I know what you dream about at night, I can better assess your current condition. So please, tell me about your dream last night.

"…"

"You'll need to speak up."

"...Do you believe in God?"

"Excuse me?"

"... God… Do you believe there is a God?"

"Hm… Yes. I would not call myself a Christian, but I believe there is a higher power that gives justice and misery to humanity. I normally don't think about religion, I have other pressing matters to keep myself busy. Do you believe in God, Mr. Valentini?"

"…. It doesn't matter if I believe in him or not, if he is truly real. I just pray that God does not exist."

"Why is that?"

"… Because if God is real... I'm going to Hell."

"Is that what you dreamed about last night, hell? Was it a cold and dark place for you?"

"…hm…"

"What is so funny?"

"… The image of Hell you have in your head. It's laughable. I cannot describe how wrong you are, doctor. You cannot fathom what Hell truly is unless you have been there. You'd wish there were no God if you have been to Hell."

"Mr. Valentini… Only sinners go to hell. Do you believe you have sinned?"

"… No."

"Then why would you go to hell? Have you repented?"

"... No, my art is something I'll never repent… I would go to Hell because God is cruel. For that was my dream last night. God's cruelty."

"I see… Did you see God himself?"

"... I couldn't tell. Some pastors are so delusional that they believe themselves to be God, and if he is manipulative enough, other people will believe him too. So, the image of God himself is distorted, but you can see where he has left his omen… When is Sebastian coming back?"

"Oh, Mr. Castellanos? Very soon, next week, to be specific."

"... Doctor, may I ask of you a small favor?"

"Depends on what it is."

"...May I have just one day where I'm not required to wear restraints while within my cell?"

"You're asking for a cheat day?"

"... It doesn't need to be for the whole day, even if it is simply for an hour or two, I would greatly appreciate it."

"Let's see, you did pass all of your blood tests… Alright, I'll allow it for an hour, no more no less."

"... Thank you so much doctor, I promise you won't regret it."

"I better not."

"... I said you won't, now if you'd excuse me, I have a piece of art to complete."

"Wait, before you start your drawing, could you please tell me when you would like this 'cheat' hour."

"Next week."

Φ

He could not wait any longer. The anticipation to wait for his visitor to arrive rose with every beat of his heart. Waiting had always been a thorn in his side, but today it served in increasing his excitement. To ease his stress, he entertained himself by scratching the metal surface of his desk with his nails. An act he had been unable to do for a while, the action gave him the satisfaction of creation though it did give him a rush that kept him on edge. What would genuinely give him satisfaction would be seeing his masterpiece, the one who killed him, the one that sent him to Hell. He could not wait to see him once more. He wanted to see him more than anything, no, not want; the feeling of obsession was more influential than a simple desire. It was an absolute need. The sound of the hallway door opening spiked his inner thrills, and he found himself already smiling before the door to his room opened.

"You already know the routine, Mr. Castellanos. Oh, and please do be mindful of the time."

"I will, don't worry, I won't take long." There he was. Sebastian Castellanos, with the same precious burning eyes, though he dawned a tan leather coat for this visit and in hand, was held a manila folder filled with unknown papers. "Not long at all."

"Alright, then. Thank you for your cooperation, Mr. Castellanos. Please enjoy your visit." The door closed, and they were alone together. Again.

"Finally, out of that straight jacket, are you?" the man commented, pulling up the metal chair, he noticed it was much closer to the glass than before.

"Only for the hour sadly, then I'll be put right back into the damn thing. I requested that I would be free of it for today only."

"Why's that?" he turned to adequately address his guest; his smile had never faltered even when his eyes connected with the passionate fire.

"I simply wanted to make myself comfortable for today's visit." His eyes were drawn back to the folder, he gestured to it. "What do you have there?"

"Your memories." The man opened the folder and began searching through the papers. "Well, some of them, most of this is just public information that comes up, when you search the terms "Krimson Photographer" or "Stefano Valentini," but with the help of St. Eden, I was able to get a hold of more confidential information. Not that me knowing your blood type is A-, is that helpful or important to your memories, unless I just reminded you of your blood type."

"No, I'm already aware of that information." He looked closer at the files and noticed a few pictures within the unorganized mix of papers. "Is that all of your sources?"

"That would be all of them."

"Interesting. I didn't know online resources, or the asylum would have a picture of my sketches in my planning journal. The investigators never found it." That stopped the man's searching, and he glanced up at him. "Not that they found much. Not even the best detectives in Krimson City could find one single head of—"

"Alright, I get it. I may have done some… deeper digging into the web. I don't know how they got the pictures, but they did, and that's all that matters." He assumed the man picked up on the falter to his smile as the man groaned. "Look, I don't have the time to explain everything to you right now. Your doctor told me we had a limited visitation today, he told me there was something 'off' about you today." His doctor would say something like that. "Should I be worried?"

"Oh, no. The doctor has the tendency to overlook reality in favor of his own flawed perspective. He mistook my excitement as agitation." The man gave him one last look before returning to the papers.

"If you say so." The man pulled a small stack of photos. "So, for today, I want to start off by showing you some pictures. When I show you a photo, tell me whether you remember it or not, and if you do tell me what you know about it. This is just to help me assess where you are with your memory. Now that isn't too difficult, is it?"

"Not at all."

"Great, let's begin." The man showed him the first picture. "You remember this one?" The picture was of a building; its dark marron walls worked well with the black roof and tiling, which contrasted against the bright gold of the statue in front of it, the statue of a double helix. He unconsciously began tapping his finger on his leg as the gears in his head began turning.

"Yes, I remember. That was the art gallery I worked with while in Krimson City, Luna Rosa Gallery. The people there were so welcoming, but they were not too appreciative of my art, unfortunately." The man gave a small smile

"Good, how about this one?" another picture was shown. The photograph was of a blonde-haired woman in a purple dress, she was posed in front of the setting sun standing at the center of a flower garden. The gold gem around her neck was brighter than her smile.

"I remember taking that photo. One of my first photographs for my gallery, you can tell."

"What about the woman?"

"I remember her, as well. I've had better models."

"What do you make of this one?" the picture shown triggered a physical response of surprise. It was a photograph of a town, taken from a faraway distance to see the smoke and flames consume the small houses and trees. Even though it was night, if one looked closely enough, they could see multiple corpses burning within the fires.

"Ah, yes, I certainly remember that one. Did you know I had to climb a tree to get that shot? It was difficult enough to scale but making sure not to be shot by enemy fire was another challenge, I am surprised I didn't fall. Some people don't know how much work goes into a single photograph."

"You would risk your life for a photo?"

"I thought differently back then; the reward always outweighed the risk. I tried to drop the habit, but I could not help myself. That mentality is what got me in here."

"Yes, that mentality is what put you here and nothing else." He gave the man a sour look, though the man's smile was still present.

"Let's move onto the next photograph, please."

"Fine, here, remember this one?" the next picture put him off. The photograph included another large building though it was not the main focus. He was the centerpiece, young and bright-eyed he was grinning ever so splendidly, but he was not alone. Standing next to him was a young man, his blonde hair and dark green eyes were a stark contrast to his own looks.

"Huh…"

"Do you not remember it?"

"No, I know where that is. That was the art school I was sent to in Florence, the man standing next to me was my roommate, but… I cannot remember his name. Must have not been that important of a person." There was a pause before the man continued.

"What do you feel about this one?" the last picture put him off; it stunned him. It was a pair of light pink ballet shoes, they appeared worn out and old, and its ribbons had torn ends. They laid next to each other on a white marble floor.

"What are you trying to show me?"

"Whatever is in the picture. I can't tell you anything, only show. Do you not remember anything?"

"Not exactly… They are familiar, but nothing comes to mind. I dressed my Obscura in ballet shoes, but they weren't that shade of pink."

"Your what?"

"Obscura. There was a drawing of her in my folders, you saw her, didn't you? It's difficult to miss her with her three legs and camera head." The man looked off in thought for a moment before recognition flashed in his eyes.

"Oh, that monstrosity, where did you get the idea to make that?"

"Everything I create comes from within my own mind, but I don't mind taking inspiration from a different source. Especially when it is a unique atmosphere to get me in the creative mood, a trait I am glad to say that the town of Union possessed."

"In Union? You're not sure that town came from within your mind as well? With how your 'Union' artworks come out, I wouldn't be surprised." A bitter taste went in his mouth at the man's commentary.

"Are you questioning my artistic choices?"

"No, your life choices." The man must have seen his rising irritation and held up his hands defensively. "Sorry, I shouldn't have questioned it. Let's get back on track. How do you feel about—"

"No, let us delve deeper into my life choices." the man stopped midway of showing him a picture.

"Don't be difficult, Valentini. We're doing so well."

"No, we're not." He could feel the onset of his rising anger. "You don't see the disconnection between us, but I do, it's infuriating. I have been playing your game long enough, I am sick of it, and I am sick of the false pretense you have made for your identity. Why do you always have to lie to me?" the man groaned and massaged the bridge of his nose.

"Your doctor was right about you being off today." the man's tone of voice matched his demeanor. "Are you going off about me not knowing who you are again? Look I already told you—"

"It's not just about that. It's everything!" he lost his calm composure, raising his voice and gritting his teeth. "Since the very first day you have been here, you have lied to me about your life, your family, your job. With all the lies you have been telling me, it feels like I don't know who you are."

"Because you don't. You don't know me, never did. And I don't know you."

"But, I do know you!"

"No, you don't." the man's defensive stance molded into offensive rather quickly, crossing his arms over his chest and his expression turning agitated. "That's just it, you don't know anything. When you tell people where you were the years that you were missing, do you expect anyone to believe that you were in 'Union'? Do you not hear how insane you sound about how you could manipulate a world full of monsters and evils beyond imagination? In reality, you were most likely in a psychotic episode around people who didn't care enough about you to help you. So, you just wondered around for two years doing God knows what until you were found by people who actually gave a shit about you; not that they knew you were a psychopathic serial killer.

"But you wouldn't know that, would you? No, you're too stuck in your ego to admit you are wrong, you don't want to listen to anything but the lies you tell yourself. The only thing you seemed to admit is that your memory is fucked up; even then, you still try to put on the façade of being all in control. You can barely remember anything that doesn't have to do with your "art," and you still believe you know anything. You don't even know yourself because if you did, you wouldn't call yourself an artist." He let the man's words sink in. After he felt them cut in deep and fill his mind, he couldn't find it in himself to feel angry anymore. No, he wasn't angry anymore. He was happy, and he let it show on his face with a small smile.

"Oh, you damn Philistine." He chuckled. "I know only what is necessary to live and what is necessary to me. For example, it is a necessity that I know how many people I have murdered in my lifetime. I have taken seventy-seven lives, and I know each and every one of them in sharp detail. Let me tell you about the woman in the photo you showed me. Her name was Alice May, a very pretty girl she was, I had decided to take her as one of my first models. I took the most beautiful photos of her, which helped start her modeling career. How did she repay me after all I had done for her? She decided not to give me any credit for my work, stealing my art to leave me behind in her glory. She told me that she didn't need me anymore; she could find better photographers for a lower price. She said I was inferior to her natural beauty." He paused to gauge the Philistine; his agitation had faded as he listened intently, though there was slight confusion mixing in his expression. Perfect.

"Well, a few years later, she started losing popularity with the modeling agencies after a little scandal she had involving public intoxication. Few people would hire her until everyone dismissed her together. And when no competent photographer would take photos of her, who did she turn to? She came back to me. She saw how successful I had become and the excellent work I did with other models, so she asked me if I could take photos of her, like old times. After all she had done to ruin me, she dared to show her face to me and demand I take photos of a worthless hag like her. Naturally, I declined, but that only started the nagging, and the pleading, and the crying. 'Oh, please, oh please Stefano forgive me, I had no intent to hurt you, I just want to be pretty, oh please, just make me pretty Stefano.' So, I did. Since she wanted to be pretty, so badly, she did not protest to coming to my studio to do the photoshoot, even though it was late at night, 11 o'clock, to be exact. She had put on her purple dress and gold necklace, and I took photos of her in front of a white background, to make herself feel beautiful. Everything went according to plan, until 12 o'clock came around.

"That's when she decided she didn't want to be pretty anymore. Or rather, she did not want me to make her pretty. The ungrateful bitch took all my hard work for granted and spat in my face with her vanity when she declined my help at the last moment. So, I ask her, 'What is wrong, don't you want to be pretty?' Then she said, 'Put the knife down.' So, I did, to pick up my gun. I shot her just as my camera flash went off. I captured that moment perfectly in a photograph that I would keep in my studio; the expression she made as the bullet went through her chest was utterly satisfying. After I shot her and she fell to the ground, however, she had the audacity to keep breathing. I saw this as I sign that I was not yet done with my art, so I continued. It was the first time I ever tried exsanguination on a live artwork. I did not want to simply slit her wrists and watch her bleed out, no, I decided to… get innovative with my creation methods.

"I strapped her up, upside down, and used my dagger to slice her open from navel to throat and studied her as her blood ran down her pale skin. She still had enough air in her lungs to scream as I began to remove the few feet of intestines that had begun to push through her wounds, it wasn't the best decision on her part she only bruised her throat and drank her own blood, the poor thing. It was not until she began drowning in blood that she stopped screaming and tried crying to me. I couldn't really understand what she was saying, blood in her throat and all, but I did hear one word, 'whore.' Even then, she could not stop herself from insulting me. She would never understand the beautiful piece of art she was becoming; she should have been satisfied, I fulfilled her wish, I made her pretty. After hearing that foul slander, I started the process of decapitation, it was—"

"Stop, stop enough!" the Philistine interrupted, a look of disgust on his face. "I don't need to hear how you fucking butchered a woman."

"Oh, you don't need to, Mr. Castellanos?" He paused, thinking for a moment. "I don't like how that sounds, Mr. Castellanos, no, I prefer Detective Castellanos much more." The look of shock on the Philistine was tantalizing. "Allow me to rephrase myself, Detective Castellanos, wouldn't you need to know every detail of my murders since you are investigating them? I am just trying to make your job easier for you."

"Where did you get the idea that I was a detective?" the Philistine tried to regain what composure he lost, he could see straight through it.

"If you did not know, I had another visitor before this meeting. My brother told me so much about you, which is strange seeing as he was supposed to be dead. You even suggested that yourself. Is he the reason why you're here?" He was glared at for a minute until a response was given.

"Guess there is no reason for me to lie, is there? Yes, he did influence my decision to come here, but not my decision to stay. This all would have been so much easier if Bruno just waited to visit you and kept his damn mouth shut." The Philistine cursed, visibly frustrated.

"Well, if it makes you feel any better, you are not the only one with secrets detective."

"I have a secret. Would you like to hear it?" The Philistine frowned.

"Sure, tell me." He chuckled and tilted his head.

"I'll tell you, but you have to view my art first." He pointed to the dresser that held his drawings.

"Are you really going to make me—"

"Oh, please look. A little peek will not hurt you, just look at them for me. I will tell you after you look, I promise." The Philistine rolled his eyes at his pleading but gave in regardless, getting up and setting the files on the chair, going to the dresser. With the Philistine's back turned to him, he stood up himself, though his visitor did not notice, he did not notice either when he walked to his bed nor when he began to adjust his pillow. He then walked up to the glass to see the Philistine holding up his latest artwork in silence; he needed to see his expression. He tapped on the glass, the Philistine turned to him, and the expression of anger he had promptly molded into one of alarm. He grinned at him.

"I will tell you my secret now," he hummed in a low voice twirling his fingers, "Did you know there is only one medium I have never used for an art piece before…"

"Valentini, stay calm, don't do anything stupid." The Philistine said with trepidation in his voice as he slowly began to make his way to his cell.

"Hush, let me finish." He put a finger to his lips, still smiling. "The only medium I had not used for an artwork is my body." The black fountain pen he had twirling between his fingers stopped, a few strands of pillow insides still caught on its sharp end. "Let's change that today shall we." He brought the pen to his arm.

"Stop!" The Philistine quickened his pace towards him.

"Oh, calm down will you, I'm just drawing the outlines. I'm not a Neanderthal." From the palm of his hand to the bend of his elbow, he marked his skin with the black ink in abstract lines; the sharpened point of the pen tickled with its cold touch.

"Just listen to me okay, put it down. It's not worth it."

"It's worth every second, detective. It's been too long since I have created art, true art." He glanced over his marked arms, the ink already starting to dry, "Didn't you say before, that my arms were decorated in scars, like a mosaic? It wouldn't hurt to add a few more." He looked back up at the Philistine, positioning the pen at the beginning of the line at his palm. "Don't look away. You need to see me create art. Appreciate me."

"Don't—"

He plunged the sharp end of the pen into his hand. The first drop of blood hit the floor, and the scent of freshly spilled blood filled his nose. He dug the pen further, making sure to stay lined up with the ink marking, with the proper incision made he began to follow the line down his arm. The point of a pen was surely different than the blade of the dagger. The dagger was designed to slice through flesh effortlessly. The pen, being made for paper, struggled to cut through the meat of his hand, even more so when he made his way down his arm. Leading him to take out the pen and create a new incision when he lost his way of the line, it was a painful process, but one that did not stop him. It would be worth it in the end, he could see through the mix of crimson blood and ebony ink cascading down his arm, that he was going to be a masterpiece. Solely focused on his work, he barely heard the shouts directed towards him, but he did catch a glance in his periphery that the Philistine had pushed the red button on the wall, just as he finished with his left arm. He moved to his right.

He was not left-handed, so it made it much more of a mess to follow the line and keep his hand steady, his grip on the pen loose due to the slickness of the blood drenching his hand. The pen got stuck on what appeared to be a clumped mass of tissue and veins, nearing the end of the line, which was a real challenge to draw through. In the effort of trying to cut through it, he veered off to the side and contorted his line. He hated mistakes; this slip leading his arms to be asymmetrical, but he decided that it was an artistic choice made by the artist. It would be beautiful in the end, mistake or not. At the end of his line, a bang on the glass almost messed him up for a second time. He paused his work, looking up to see the Philistine had banged his hand on the glass; apparently he had been doing so for some time guessing by the glass's scratches.

"Look at me!" the Philistine shouted with a quaking voice. He obeyed, meeting the other pair of eyes, that held that same burning flame he knew so dearly, though his own gaze slowly drifted to the palm put against the glass. Inspecting it for a second or two, he looked back at his own palm and beamed. He dropped the bloody pen.

"Look…" he husked between chuckles. He put his bleeding palm to the Philistine's, the glass kept them from touching. "We're matching." The Philistine did not return his smile. He began using his bloody hands to paint over the glass with his blood and the pen's ink. Through the blood dripping down the glass, he could see he obtained two new audience members in the orderlies' presence, one looked at him with horror; the other was caught up arguing with the Philistine. He paid them no mind and continued his work. The pain that had so profoundly stung into his arms was now an afterthought, his new focus being to transfer what he did on paper and charcoal to glass and blood. It was going to be just as beautiful as his arms. He was again pulled from his focus at the sound of a door creaking open, to his surprise he looked over to see it was his cell door that cracked open. It did not close. He stopped his work and picked the pen from off the blood-stained floor.

"Get away from the door!" the orderly before the door shouted, though his back was turned to him. "We're not trained to handle this; we need to wait for the guards to come. I don't know how you got keys but stay away from—" Being so distracted by yelling at the Philistine, the orderly didn't see him coming. He launched through the door in a heartbeat, the pen stabbing into the orderly's neck before he could finish another thought. The spray of blood that splashed across his face was refreshing.

"Isaac!" the cry of the other orderly was nearly drowned out by the screams of the one wriggling in his grasp, he was considerably weaker than him. A man only tasked with handing out medication and cleaning up rooms, could only do so much against a fierce predator such as himself. He soon met a force that was equal if not greater to his own, in a punch to the face delivered by the Philistine himself. The sudden blow stunned him for a moment, but he was soon stable and turned to his new victim, leaving his previous one to crumble to the floor and into the arms of a comrade.

"You want to fight me again, Philistine?! Let us, for old times' sake!" he screamed, making to stab his enemy, though his wrist was caught before his weapon could make contact, and the other was soon restrained as well as he tried to punch back.

"I'll handle him! Get out now!" the Philistine called to the orderlies, one in shock and the other bleeding out. With his clothes drenched in his comrade's blood, he wordlessly dragged himself and the other orderly to and out the door. Thank you for your cooperation.

"Now that we're alone, tell me, how was my performance? Fantastic, no?" He chuckled, struggling against the hold of his adversary. The grip on his wrists tightened, and he cringed at the pressure being applied to his wounds; the reflexive reaction of him drawing back led to him being overpowered and pushed backward to slam into the wall, knocking the breath out of him momentarily. His arms were put to his sides as his adversary kept him pinned against the wall.

"Stop it, Valentini! What the hell are you doing?" he laughed, short and sweet before connecting with the Philistine's gaze.

"You're enjoying this, aren't you?" he wheezed.

"Dammit, I don't want to hurt you! I'm trying to help you; I can't help you like this."

"You want to help me so badly…" his smile cracked. "But you don't even know me. Why help a stranger?"

"I do know you, Valentini. You were right all along, I was lying to you. I do know you, from back then, from Union. I know you." His smile left him, a blank expression taking its place.

"You know me…"

"Yes!"

"If you really know me… you'll kill me." The Philistine looked surprised; he really shouldn't have.

"What?!"

"I said…" his grin began to return. "You will kill me. Do it."

"I'm not going to kill you."

"Oh, but I want you to. You have done it dozens of times before; if you killed me back in Union, you can kill me here. Kill me. Make me bleed more than I ever have." He pushed back, though he was kept restrained.

"Stop, fighting me, I'm not going to hurt you anymore."

"You son of a bitch, kill me!" He threw his knee forward into his adversary's gut, the restraint on his arms loosed as the Philistine stumbled back, but he held his ground.

"I'm not fucking killing you!"

"KILL ME!" With a new burning anger, he twisted his arms, the sudden motion causing the point of the pen to graze the Philistine's face who stepped back at the attack. The grip loosened on his wrists, and he did not take the chance for granted, stabbing the pen into his adversary's shoulder, who cursed in pain. The ensuing struggle for dominance had them toppling over the metal chair, they both fell to the ground with the Philistine still gripping his wrists and the file's contents spilling over the floor. In the fall, he was fortunate enough to be the one to land on top, he was smaller than his adversary, but with how the Philistine refused to release his wrists, he could not find the leverage he needed to throw him off. "You don't want to kill me, that's too bad." He tore the pen out of the shoulder, and the Philistine watched with widened eyes as it was brought to his temple. "Do you want me to kill you instead?" The Philistine cringed as the pen's sharp end, dug into his flesh, and veered downward.

"Now you know that won't do any good for you." Tugging out the pen, he watched with a half-lidded eye as blood slowly seeped from the wound. With an ever-growing grin, he leaned down and ran his tongue over the wound, lapping up the blood, the Philistine tasted salty yet sweet on his tongue as he felt him quiver beneath him. His lips drew next to his ear. "If you were to die, can you imagine how your little girl would sob?" he brought the pen to the Philistine's neck. The hand holding the pen was pushed back into the side of his neck, even though it was not the sharp end, the jab to his throat had him coughing and pulling back, nearly falling to the side; his wrists were held at bay. "You have that same burning fire within you, you'll need it to kill me. Just like before."

"I already told you, I'm not going to kill you. I know you don't want to die; you're just saying that now because you think death will end all the pain. I understand that, I've been there, but begging me to kill you won't be what helps you. I want to help you, killing you won't. You're bleeding out, you need—"

"I need you to kill me! If you are not going to do it on your own, I'll make you!" With dexterous fingers, he flipped the pen around, the pointed end facing him. He brought his head down to meet the sharp end of the pen; it penetrated deep into his eye or where it would have been if he still had it. The scar tissue provided a tough layer of resistance, but it quickly fell to his growing pressure. He felt the hand tugging at his wrist, to try and pull it away, grinning through the agony, he used his other hand to grip the one holding his wrist. He pushed the hand upwards along with the pen. "Look, you're almost there, can you feel it?!" he hissed, the pain throbbing stronger.

"Stop dammit!" Desperation had crept into the voice and seeped into the eyes. "Please, I don't want to kill you, Stefano!" He pushed harder.

"Y-Yes you do!" he hadn't expected his voice to crack. "You have to."

"The first artwork I saw of yours was William Baker, you shot him point-blank in the temple." He froze, his body rigid and still as he stared down, meeting the warm eyes of the man, he continued. "You displayed him in a blue film, right next to one of your red rooms, which held a picture of his corpse on a counter. I found my way to your studio mansion, where you gave me a phone call, you just chuckled before hanging up. I walked through a red-curtained hallway leading to double doors, they led me to a room. The room where I first saw you." The man's hands gently guided his own away from the pen embedded in his head, his body relaxed as he did so. His hand released his wrist, and began calmly pulling out the pen, he continued to speak. "A man had just run out another set of doors, before I saw you. You appeared in a burst of blue flames, camera and dagger in hand as you created art. I was frightened, so much that when I tried to keep hidden, I accidentally knocked over a painting next to me. That had gotten your attention, and I was scared shitless, I didn't have any weapons or way to attack you, so I could only hide. I made it out of sight just as you stood where I had moments before." The pen came out with a final twist and was tossed to the other side of the room. Such a small utensil had done so much harm.

"I was able to take a good look at you then, though, I couldn't see your face, your hair was in the way. I made a mental picture in my head of what you could have looked like. When I actually saw your face for the first time..." the same hand that relieved him of the pen, combed through his black hair and placed behind his ear, revealing his face in all its scarred charm. "I was nearly spot-on, but I didn't account for the camera lens eye. You had left the room then, but I had a gut feeling I would see you again, and I did. Our game had begun in that room, and it had continued all throughout Union as I chased you down to get the CORE, a little girl with a big imagination. We fought over her in the Grand Theater. That was where I killed you, or at least I thought I did. Somehow, we both made it out of that hell alive... Who knew we would find each other again out here?" Sebastian smiled at him; it drew attention away from all the blood that stained his face and made his eyes beam with a comforting warmth. There was a moment when he was unsure of what to do. He did not need to do anything, Sebastian did it for him, gripping his wrists to stop the bleeding.

"I know you, Stefano Valentini." He found his voice to speak.

"I know."

The beep of the electronic lock sounded behind him.

"Don't you fucking move, Valentini!" at the sudden thunderous noise, it was natural for him to look over his shoulder.

It had been a long, long time since he heard the deafening bang of a gun going off. It had been an even longer time since he had been shot with a bullet, but he could remember the burning agony that came with it as it quickly spread through his side. His adrenaline fading and blood loss finally taking its toll, he fell over and collapsed to the ground. The grip on his hands never released even as he fell, he supposed the man was screaming with how terribly his hands were shaking, it was easy to tell even though his ears were ringing. However, the grip was forced to let itself go, when more guards came and were able to pry the man away. He reached out for him. He met thin air. That is when his body went numb. He let himself lay in a pool of blood as the corners of his vision grew dark. It was an impossible feat for him to simply look up, but a greater force allowed him to do so. Through his blackening vision, he saw the guard glaring down at him. He did not see the kick coming before it bashed into his skull.

The world went dark.