The Painter's Shadow

In the distance, a clock struck the first chime of midnight in this prison. Around the couple, the laughter of the passersby faded one by one. The silhouettes disappeared, consumed by a muted twilight.

The ground wavered to the rhythm of the slow, heavy footsteps that echoed in the Luxembourg Gardens like a soundless echo. The spring breeze, gentle and fragrant, thickened, carrying with it a sharp smell of oil and turpentine. The temples of Isao's head throbbed painfully, as if his entire body was screaming at him to run.

With each step, more of the Medici Fountain seemed to absorb, bending, stretching. It dematerialized into a strange mist, its gentle splashing replaced by the dull crackling of a stretched canvas.

A low, almost melodic laugh rose behind them. It resonated, strangely close yet distant at the same time, like an echo in an empty cathedral. They turned around in unison. Their shoes no longer crunched on the gravel but brushed against a waxed floor marked by the ravages of time.

A male figure emerged from the shadows. The man, elegantly dressed in a black suit, a blood-red silk scarf tied around his neck. His face could have been handsome if it weren't disfigured by an expression of contained madness. Isao didn't need anyone to introduce him to recognize those sharp features, those eyes burning with a supernatural, devouring passion.

Adrien Rousseau had just entered the scene.

"What a touching reunion," he said in a suave, almost caressing voice. "My dear Lucille and her... savior from the future ?"

Lucille, who had been so fragile only moments before, intervened. Her fingers clenched on Isao's arm, trembling, but her determined voice cracked like a whip:

"Leave us, Adrien! We are not your toys!"

The shadow of the painter flickered briefly, as if surprised by the brilliance of her rebellion.

Regaining his unnerving calm, his smile widened, sinister, revealing teeth unnaturally white. He took a step towards them, and the scenery wavered once more. The Medici Fountain and its park partially faded, revealing the contours of a painting studio. Adrien's studio — chaotic, overrun with abstract canvases on ghostly walls and veiled mirrors.

"Dear Isao, why would you want to take her from me ? Out of compassion ? Artistic fascination ? Or love for a woman you only know through a mirror ?" he asked, his tone becoming almost conversational. "What touching naivety."

Isao tried to speak, but no sound left his lips. The air seemed to turn liquid, clinging to his throat.

With each slow step Adrien took, the scenery oscillated more between the garden and the studio. The paintings on the walls became sharper, portraits of Lucille — dozens of paintings showing her from every angle, in every light, some breathtakingly beautiful, others deeply unsettling.

A heavy silence descended upon them. The splashing of the fountain now seemed distant, muffled by the tension that saturated the air.

Adrien took one final step towards the two souls in torment. The garden disappeared entirely, leaving room for Adrien's studio — easels, torn canvases, furniture eaten away by humidity, all emerging in an oppressive chiaroscuro. Mirrors of all sizes were arranged around a central space, creating an endless kaleidoscope of reflections. The air was thick with the suffocating smell of varnish and turpentine.

The high-ceilinged room, its soot-blackened walls, seemed to breathe, swelling and contracting like diseased lungs. The canvases and sketches oozed a black substance like coagulated blood. The entire room vibrated with a sickly will.

"Welcome to my home," exclaimed Adrien, spreading his arms in a grand theatrical gesture. "Forgive me, I can only offer such a modest welcome to such precious guests."

He walked calmly toward a canvas covered with a dark cloth and tore it off in one swift motion. It was yet another portrait of Lucille. She was depicted floating in a black space, her translucent body, her eyes staring at the viewer with an expression of pure distress. Around her, shards of mirror formed a sparkling prison.

"Another of my masterpieces," Adrien said with reverence.

His obsession was palpable, invasive, like a physical presence in the room.

Isao found it hard to breathe. Each breath felt like a battle against an invisible weight. His thoughts clashed together, distorted by creeping panic. His legs almost buckled, as if the floor itself were trying to swallow him.

"You’re insane," he whispered.

Adrien's gaze settled on him, cold and calculating.

"Insane ? No, my friend. I am a visionary. I have transformed the ephemeral into the eternal."

Lucille had approached one of the sketches, depicting a pose session. Her trembling finger lightly brushed the yellowed paper.

"It was that day," she murmured. "The day you..."

"… gave me immortality," Adrien finished, his smile that of a predator nearing a prey already resigned. "You can be grateful to me."

Isao stepped between them, unable to bear Adrien's proximity to Lucille any longer.

"You think you can save her, dear hero ? And then what ? Will you still be able to see her as you did before ?" Adrien continued, staring directly into Isao's eyes with disturbing coldness. The smile he formed revealed an obvious cruelty.

Lucille's complexion had turned ashen. Silent, she shook her head slightly, her eyes empty, devoid of any spark of life.

"You only see her because she's trapped in the mirror. She is your muse; she nourishes your talent. If you free her... you will lose your artistic vision," Adrien said, insidious, answering his own questions. "She will just be an ordinary woman who will eventually wither, and you, you will be nothing."

Isao's breath quickened. Lucille looked at him, frozen.

"Isao..." she murmured.

Adrien stepped closer, his face almost touching Isao's.

"So, tell me, Isao... do you still want to save her and destroy what makes you an artist ? Allow me to doubt it!" he taunted. "You only love the idea of possessing her. You are just like me."

Isao felt a vise tighten around his chest.

"He lies," Lucille whispered.

But the uncertainty in her voice betrayed her own doubt.

"Do you even understand, Isao ? Here, you can be a god. Lucille’s beauty will be preserved for eternity."

Adrien, his face half-immersed in shadow, reached out to him, his palm open, offered like a promise.

"Stay, my dear friend. Join me in creating, together, a world where beauty never dies."

A metallic taste rose in Isao's mouth. His gaze flickered between Adrien's tempting face and Lucille’s, trembling but determined.

The studio seemed to close in around them, the walls drawing nearer as if to crush them. The portraits of Lucille suddenly came alive, their faces twisted by suffering or ecstasy, their eyes following every movement in the room.

Lucille lunged toward Isao, her eyes sparkling with contained tears.

"Don’t listen to him," she hissed in a broken but firm voice. "He manipulates your fears, just as he always did with me. Never listen to the lies of a man who confuses possession with love."

Isao felt his heart tighten. The quiet strength emanating from her eclipsed, for a fleeting moment, the fear that gripped him.

Isao, filled with a frozen terror, looked at Lucille, searching her eyes for confirmation that the choice was clear, that he had to save her, no matter the consequences. But a small voice in his mind whispered that maybe Adrien was right. Wasn't that what had initially drawn him to Lucille ? That ethereal beauty, that mysterious quality of her image in the mirror ? What would be left if she simply... left the mirror ?

He swallowed painfully. His breath was shallow, his throat dry. The whole studio seemed to close in on him.

Adrien watched the turmoil on his face with evident satisfaction.

"You doubt," he exclaimed with satisfaction, a venomous grin twisting his lips. "It’s the curse of the artist. We can never be content with reality — we always seek beyond it, the mystery, the unattainable."

The portraits, now shadows, danced around them, taking nightmarish forms. The ground seemed to ripple beneath their feet like the surface of a disturbed pond.

Adrien, in a flash of contained rage, placed a cold, possessive hand on Lucille's shoulder. Under his touch, the light seemed to fade, the shadows creeping up Lucille's skin like an oil spill.

Isao felt his stomach tighten. Every fiber of his being screamed at him to lunge forward, to tear Lucille away from this grasp. But his legs refused to obey, paralyzed, rooted to the spot by an invisible force.

The reality around them seemed to waver, shattering into liquid shards. The floor undulated beneath their feet, the canvases on the walls pulsing like beating hearts.

A leaden silence fell over the room. Isao felt his heart race until it shattered, while Lucille stifled a scream of horror.