The photography studio in Paris was impeccably lit, reflecting the professional rhythm Arion Kael had learned to adopt. He moved among cameras and lights, adjusting angles and expressions, while the photographer—a patient yet demanding veteran—pointed out details that needed correcting.
"A bit more tilt in the shoulder, Arion. Now, turn your head gently. Perfect," said the photographer, as Arion maintained the artist's mask on his face, as he did in every public appearance. This was the persona the audience saw: confident, mysterious, flawless. Inside, however, the weight of anxiety was growing—a mix of worry and anticipation.
Between poses and clicks, Arion mentally reviewed every detail: the slightly tousled hair, the way he held the guitar to convey the right feeling, the distant gaze that needed to express something he still struggled to understand. Every gesture was meticulously calculated, as if he could control the world through the image he created.
The photo session ended with a few final close-up shots, showing the artist's mask reflecting the light in almost hypnotic patterns. The photographer sighed, satisfied."It's great, Arion. I think we've captured exactly what you wanted," he said, switching off the lights.
Next came the magazine interview. The reporter talked about his career, tour, inspirations, and Arion responded carefully, maintaining the enigmatic tone of his artistic persona, keeping the whirlwind of thoughts about Seraya hidden. Each answer was measured, each pause planned, each gesture calculated to reveal no more than it should.
"And your upcoming projects?" the reporter asked, leaning in slightly.
"I'm exploring new musical experiences, blending rhythms and colors in each performance. I want every show to tell its own story," Arion replied, glancing at the camera before giving a slight smile, keeping his mask perfectly in place.
Meanwhile, Lior was alone at the hotel. The morning began with coffee, piles of notes, and computer screens open. He studied symbols, dates, and newspaper clippings, trying to find logic in the strange events.
"What the hell am I doing here?" he muttered, gesturing at the ceiling. "I got on the plane thinking the hardest part would be convincing Arion to go to therapy. And now…"—he slammed papers across the desk—"I have to deal with possible living paintings!"
He paced a few steps, tossing one notebook aside, picking up another, rummaging frantically. After a few minutes of exaggerated gestures and complaints, he stopped abruptly, took a deep breath, and his eyes lit up with an idea.
"Wait… wait… I've been looking only at the painting's effect, the mural, the notebook… and forgetting the obvious," he murmured, now serious. "Why not search for other artists who disappeared around the same time as Seraya?"
He sat down and began researching names, dates, cities, and possible connections. The energy that had seemed chaotic transformed into focus.
Meanwhile, Arion finished the interview, took the last photos, and finally left the studio. Paris traffic crawled slowly, indifferent to the whirlwind of thoughts inside the car.
As they approached the hotel, Arion had a flashback: the last time he saw Seraya, just over a month before her disappearance. He remembered the studio she had rented near the Kaerel quay, bathed in late afternoon light pouring through large windows. Seraya was in front of the canvas, painting Aeeth's portrait, her brushes floating with almost supernatural precision, each stroke telling its own story.
She murmured disconnected words to herself that Arion barely understood. Her hair fell over her shoulders, stained with blue and green paint, and her eyes reflected an intensity Arion had never seen before—a mix of obsession and vulnerability. He noticed small changes: the smile that used to light up her face had vanished, replaced by an overly concentrated, almost distant expression.
"Seraya…" he began, trying to break the silence without seeming intrusive. "Can I talk to you for a moment?"
She lifted her eyes, and for a second, the world seemed to stop. There was something different in her gaze, deep and unsettling, as if she were looking at another plane only she could see.
"Not now, Arion," she said softly, though there was urgency in her voice. "I need to finish this. Understand… it's important."
He approached the canvas, fascinated by the emerging details: shapes intertwining, colors that seemed to pulse with life, a light that changed depending on the viewing angle. It was beautiful, but unsettling, as if the painting were breathing a story he still couldn't comprehend.
"Are you okay?" Arion insisted, worried. "Lately… you seem… different."
Seraya lowered her eyes for a moment, as if weighing what she could reveal. Then she looked back at the canvas and shook her head:"There are things you wouldn't understand now… and maybe never. I need time. I need to discover them alone."
Before he could say another word, Arion's phone vibrated in his pocket—a work call he couldn't ignore. He swallowed his concern, gave one last look at Seraya, and left.
She returned to the painting, her hands now trembling slightly, layering colors that seemed to reflect emotions held too tightly. Arion felt a tightness in his chest, a sense that something important was slipping beyond his reach. At that moment, he didn't know, but it was the last time he saw her.
Arion sighed, closing his eyes briefly, feeling the memory weigh on the present. Meanwhile, Lior continued writing frantically at the hotel, scribbling ideas, reviewing dates, now with a sparkle in his eyes, fully absorbed in what he had discovered.
"I think we finally have a direction," Lior said to himself.