My Savage Valentine

As Chicago’s most promising artist, I’ve always seen the world differently—noticing patterns others miss, sensing the darkness hidden beneath polished surfaces. My abstract paintings explore the shadows most people fear to face, but I never imagined finding someone who truly understood them until I met Gabriel Dawson.

His jazz bar became my sanctuary, his music echoing the chaotic beauty I try to capture on canvas. But when I accidentally discovered what lay beneath the stage floor—the carefully preserved trophies of his darkest passions—I should have run screaming into the night.

Instead, I found myself drawn to his dangerous honesty, the raw authenticity in his eyes when he speaks of justice served outside the law. My best friend Maya fell into this world through Adrian’s chocolates; I stumbled in through Gabe’s bloodstained hands. Now we’re forming something beyond friendship or romance—a dark quartet playing a deadly symphony of our own composition.

They say true artists must suffer to create authentic work. What they don’t tell you is how exhilarating it feels when suffering is something you inflict rather than endure, or how intoxicating it is to find a partner who appreciates your particular vision of justice rendered in crimson.