She painted me tired.
She painted me human.
For a moment, I'm eight years old, looking at my mother's body and understanding that love is just another word for loss.
Focus.
It's not just my face. It's everything I've spent decades hiding. The exhaustion living in my bones. The weight of every life taken or ordered taken. The isolation that comes from being feared but never known.
She painted the moment I realize I'll die alone, and painted it like it's worth looking at.
"Shit," Grimm whispers, staring at the painting like it might bite. "That's really you."
Even he sounds shaken. Grimm, who's seen me pull men apart with shadows. Who's watched me extract information from people who thought they were strong. Who's never, in fifteen years, seen me as anything but the Shadow King.
Now he's looking between me and the canvas like he's discovering I exist.
"The artist," I say carefully. "Where?"
"Not here," Joss provides smoothly. Too smoothly. "She was at Emmerson's Bakery an hour ago. Bought day-old bread, complained about egg prices. Lives above Crow's—second floor, blue door with a broken lock she fixes weekly. It breaks again immediately."
Of course she has Olivia Caldris's routine memorized. Of course she knows about the lock. Joss collects information like other people collect teeth.
"She seems..." Joss pauses, and something like amusement crosses her face, "concerningly oblivious to personal safety."
I stare at the painting. At myself. Someone saw me. Not the Shadow King. Not the guild master. Me. And instead of running, instead of burning the evidence, she displayed it. Like she was proud.
My shadows writhe without permission, reaching toward the canvas.
"Tonight then." The decision feels like swallowing glass. "After full dark."
"Want backup?" Grimm offers, already knowing the answer.
"For one artist who paints uncomfortable truths and can't fix a lock?" My laugh sounds wrong even to me. "I'll manage."
We leave the painting. Looking at it feels like being flayed, and I have a reputation to maintain. But as we walk back, my shadows keep pulling toward it. Like they recognize something. Like they're tired of hiding too.
"Cancel everything tonight," I tell Joss. "I have an appointment with someone who's about to learn why painting the Shadow King is a terminal mistake."
She makes a note. The scratch of her pen sounds like prophecy.
"Of course," she says. "I'll ensure no one disturbs you."
Something in her tone makes me look at her. Really look. She's fighting a smile. My spymaster, who's seen me commit atrocities that would break normal minds, is fighting a smile.
"Something amusing?"
"No, sir." But her mouth twitches. "Just wondering if you'll kill her before or after she offers you tea."
"What?"
"She offers everyone tea. Even the man who tried to rob her last week. Made him sit down and discuss his life choices over chamomile." Joss tucks her notepad away. "Fixed his dislocated shoulder too. Sent him off with banana bread."
I stop walking. "She gave banana bread to someone who tried to rob her?"
"Wrapped it in a clean cloth so it would stay fresh." Joss's expression remains professionally neutral, but her eyes dance. "Also gave him career advice. He's apparently considering legitimate employment now."
Grimm coughs. It sounds suspiciously like a laugh.
