Something breaks in his expression. For one moment, he looks exactly like the painting—exhausted, isolated, desperately human. Then the walls rebuild themselves.
"You're dangerous." An accusation.
"I sell paintings at a market stall and live on cheese." I gesture at my disaster of a studio. Empty mugs everywhere.Paint tubes squeezed to death. That sock I've been looking for hanging from an easel. "How am I dangerous?"
"You see things people spend lifetimes hiding." He's backing toward the shadows. "You look at monsters and offer them tea."
"Everyone needs tea." Defensive. "Even monsters. Especially monsters. They probably have stomach issues from all the stress."
He shakes his head. "This was a mistake."
"What, not killing me? That seems like a good mistake. The best kind, really. Very considerate."
"Don't—" He stops. Runs a hand through his hair, messing it just enough to look human. "Don't put the painting on display. Don't paint me again. Don't... don't look for people who don't want to be found."
"But what if they need—"
The shadows swallow him before I can finish. Only the sudden absence of cold remains, and a lingering scent—darkness and expensive cologne and something medicinal. Probably for the headaches.
I'm alone.
With a half-finished landscape that wants to scream.
With his portrait watching.
With the sudden realization that I just survived an assassination attempt by accidentally offering therapy and tea.
"Well." I tell the empty studio. "That happened."
My hands won't stop shaking. The desperate need to paint what I just saw—him, human and hurting and probably skipping breakfast—burns under my skin.
"Cheese." I decide. "This calls for cheese."
I have that lovely sharp cheddar. Supposed to last the week but extreme situations call for extreme measures. I cutthick slices, uneven pieces. The first bite is sharp and real and grounds me.
"You should be dead," I inform myself between bites. "Normal people who paint crime lords end up in canals."
But he'd looked at the painting like a mirror he'd been avoiding. Looked at me like I was impossible. Left me breathing when every instinct probably screamed otherwise.
"He needs vegetables." I tell the cheese. "And sleep. And probably one of those neck pillows for the tension headaches. Do shadow assassins use neck pillows?"
Already planning what to leave on the windowsill tomorrow. Nothing obvious. Just bread maybe. The good kind from Emmerson's. With butter. Real butter. Maybe some of those carrots Emil gave me. Cooked soft. In a proper container so they stay warm.
"You can't adopt assassins," I tell myself firmly. "They're not stray cats. They don't need feeding schedules."
But my magic hums, satisfied. Like when I've seen something true. When I've helped, even accidentally.
The portrait watches me plan care packages for my would-be killer.
"This is going to be a problem," I tell the painting.
It doesn't disagree.
I eat more cheese. Good sharp cheddar that makes my jaw work for it. Stare at the shadows, wondering if he's still watching. Wondering if he knows I'm already worried about whether he owns proper pillows. The supportive kind. For his neck.
"Next time," I tell the darkness, "I'm making soup. With barley. And vegetables cut properly small."
The shadows don't answer, but something in their quality suggests they're listening.
