chapter four

(Eli )

Fall is almost about to come, I can smell the sweet scent it brings every time. I look back at the mirror.

My hand is filled with pain of course on the day i have important meetings, i'm gonna suffer; god really does hate me!, It’s only when the dull ache in my fingers settles that I realize the doorbell’s been ringing for the past two minutes.

I drag myself to the door, already annoyed—

and there he is.

Silas.

Smiling like he owns the damn sun.

He doesn’t say a word. Just hands me a small box, like he’s the world’s most smug delivery guy, and turns to leave.

Gone before I can ask why.

I carry the box to the couch, drop into the cushions, and lift the lid.

A soft laugh escapes me.

Inside are bandages—Hello Kitty bandages.

All pinks and blues, some black, a few white. Overly cute, overly him.

I roll my sleeves up, slowly peel away the old one. My skin stings a little as I press the new one over the cut.

He’s such a damn child.

Did I misjudge him?.

It started with a paintbrush.

Not metaphorically. A literal brush. Wood handle, stiff bristles.

The kind you buy in bulk at an art supply store, not because it’s good—because it’s cheap and you’re angry and you need something to do with your hands ; and not use a fucking knife.

I’d just finished the toughest case I ever got for the month.

But he; james the criminal defense lawyer

Got a man off charges he definitely should’ve served time for.

He's exactly like him….he hurt his kids, god i hate myself so much.

I tried my best to have him in jail. God, I tried so bad ; I've been trying for four months now..

But that was the job. Prove doubt. Protect the system by knowing exactly how to bend it.

I walked out of the courthouse to the sound of my own heartbeat in my ears and the echo of the prosecution’s eyes on my back. Maybe he wanted me to retaliate.

He won.

So I bought a canvas for my studio . Didn’t even take the price tag off; for it was quite expensive; Started painting nothing. Just... shapes. Chaos. Red on white. Black over red.

I threw it in the trash the next morning.

But it didn’t matter. The itch in my spine quieted. Just a little.

I realized something that week.

Criminal law would always feed my mind.

But I needed something else to keep my soul from collapsing in on itself.

The whimsy studio came later—born out of instinct. I had an eye for design. Clean lines. Order. Control like how I can't control what others do but I can control what I do . I control my paintings. And a way with people, when I wanted to;I made it two years back when I moved here .

People trust designers. They think you’re harmless.

Creative. Sensitive. Not the kind of person who can find every loophole in a judge’s ruling or discredit a witness without ever raising your voice.

So I built WHIMSY STUDIO on the corner of Maple and 6th.

Big windows. Matte black sign. Minimalist everything.

No mention of my second life. No law degree on the wall.

Just art.

Logos. Moodboards. Brand stories for fresh businesses trying to look bigger than they are.

It’s not a lie. I do the work. And I’m good at it.

But it’s a cover.

A clean coat of paint over the part of me that fights monsters in courtrooms and sometimes sees one in the mirror after.

Silas once asked me—voice low, lips barely curved, like it was a game—

“Why pretend to be an artist when you're clearly something else?”