Because my attention has already drifted against my will to Alexander.
He hasn’t raised his paddle once. Not even once since this whole damn thing started. Not even pretending to be interested like the others. His broad frame leans back in his chair, arms crossed, face unreadable.
Except his eyes.
They’re fixed on me.
A prickle spreads down my neck, heat blooming under my collar. I snap my gaze forward, forcing myself to focus on the meaningless numbers being tossed around this room.
I don’t understand him. I don’t understand any of this.
What is his problem with me? Why watch me like that? Because I happened to walk into that alley and see him beating a man half to death? That’s not my fault. Why did he even beat theman up in the first place? And it’s not like I’d ever report him—God, no. I don’t trust the cops, and I wouldn’t drag myself into something I can’t escape.
So why me? Why this?
“And now,” the auctioneer announces, voice echoing grandly, “the final piece of the evening. The highlight of our exhibition, generously donated by one of our own… Maksim Petrov.”
The name jolts me. His brother.
My head turns instinctively toward Alexander. This time, he isn’t looking at me. His eyes are locked on the stage, his body stiff but purposeful, arms still crossed. Focused.
The curtains fall.
And for some reason, my stomach lurches.
The painting is… familiar. Too familiar.
Dark shades swallow the canvas, black and storm-gray layered thick like suffocating smoke. In the center looms a tall, shadowed figure, shoulders broad, body painted in harsh, violent strokes that seem to vibrate with movement. He towers over a much smaller form—frail, skin painted in sickly pale tones.
The smaller figure stands alone at the mouth of an alley. A flickering streetlight in the background barely reaches him, the edges swallowed by shadow.
My breath hitches.
That alley.
That night.
What the hell?
My lungs clench tight, refusing to take in air. It’s too much, the scene trapped on canvas is the same one burned into my memory, the night I saw Alexander. The violence. The silence. The tension.
The brushstrokes are a mess, angry, and chaotic, but every single line feels deliberate. Purposeful. This painting doesn’t belong here among soft flowers and pretty watercolors. It’s wrong. Raw. Disturbing.
And it’s terrifyingly real; the gasps and whispers from the audience confirm it.
My gaze drags helplessly toward Alexander.
He’s no longer sitting like he doesn’t care. He’s upright now, head tilted slightly as he studies the canvas like it’s the first time he’s seen it. And then slowly, deliberately, his eyes find mine across the sea of people.
The air between us crackles, invisible but tangible, pulling tight like a wire.
The corner of his mouth twitches.
Like he knows. Like it’s a secret between us.
“Starting the bid at fifty thousand dollars,” the auctioneer calls.
A paddle shoots up immediately.
