«𝙄'𝙢 𝘼𝙤𝙞. 𝘼𝙤𝙞 𝙁𝙪𝙟𝙞𝙠𝙖𝙬𝙖. 𝘼𝙤𝙞 𝙡𝙞𝙠𝙚 𝙃𝙤𝙡𝙡𝙮𝙝𝙤𝙘𝙠, 𝙣𝙤𝙩 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙘𝙤𝙡𝙤𝙧 𝘽𝙡𝙪𝙚. 𝙔𝙚𝙖𝙝, 𝙄 𝙠𝙣𝙤𝙬-𝙣𝙤𝙗𝙤𝙙𝙮 𝙚𝙫𝙚𝙧 𝙜𝙚𝙩𝙨 𝙞𝙩 𝙧𝙞𝙜𝙝𝙩 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙛𝙞𝙧𝙨𝙩 𝙩𝙞𝙢𝙚.»
She had always thought that made her sou...
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HATE
-Aoi-
Aoi stood finally stood in front of the art department building, her clothes plastered to her skin from the rain, her hair a wet mess that stuck to her face. She was cold, tired, and still shaken from the strange encounter earlier in the day. The feeling of that guy's mocking gaze and the way the creatures had retreated from him lingered in her mind, no matter how hard she tried to shake it off. She had trained herself to ignore those things her entire life, but there had been something unnerving about how they reacted to him, how they seemed... afraid.
It doesn't matter, she told herself, brushing the thoughts away. What mattered now was the painting in her hands. The final one. This was it—the end of her year-long project.
Her fingers clutched the edges of the wrapped canvas tightly, holding it as though it were a fragile piece of herself. She had spent months pouring her soul into this series, every emotion she had ever felt laid bare on the canvas. Each painting had been a reflection of her inner world. And now, she was carrying the last one: Hate. All she had to do now was hand it in, and she could finally rest.
She pushed open the glass doors of the building, and the warmth inside wrapped around her, a brief respite from the chill outside. Her shoes squelched against the floor as she crossed the lobby, her legs stiff from exhaustion. The familiar quiet of the building usually brought her comfort, but today it felt different, almost oppressive. The hallways were dimly lit, and the soft hum of fluorescent lights echoed in the empty space. Aoi glanced around, instinctively checking for any lingering shadows in the corners of her vision. They were always there, those twisted, grotesque figures. Lurking. Watching. But she had learned long ago how to keep them at bay—by pretending they didn't exist.
As she walked, she felt their presence just out of sight, shifting in the periphery. For some reason, they never approached her directly, but she knew they were there, hovering like unwanted guests. Sometimes she could make out their shapes more clearly—elongated limbs, misshapen faces, eyes that never seemed to blink. But she kept her gaze forward, ignoring them as she always did.
They're not real, she reminded herself, gripping the canvas a little tighter. Just keep moving.
The commission office wasn't far now, just down the hall and around the corner. With each step, she felt a little lighter. Soon, she would be free of this weight, this emotional burden she had been carrying for too much long. She could already imagine herself collapsing into her bed in her tiny, rented apartment, curling up under the blankets, and sleeping for days. Maybe she'd treat herself to something sweet—mochi, perhaps—or sketch a little, just for fun, with no pressure, no deadlines. The thought brought a fleeting sense of relief.
