«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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DESIRE
-Aoi-
«This is bullshit! Un-freaking-believable!»
Aoi's voice sliced through the quiet December air, her exasperation ricocheting off the walls of the narrow Sendai alley. She practically tore the glossy auction brochure in her hands, her knuckles white as she clenched it tight. The stupid little booklet, with its sleek, embossed logo and pretentious descriptions of "rare and exclusive masterpieces" had done nothing but fuel the frustration she'd been harboring for weeks now. She stood there, trembling hands, eyes blazing with fury as she read the listing over and over, hoping in vain that the words might change on their own. But no. The page mocked her with its permanence.
Her face flushed a deep, furious red that crept up her neck to her ears, and she clenched the pamphlet tighter, her fingers whitening at the knuckles. The cold December air bit at her exposed skin, turning her nose and cheeks a bright pink, but the chill only added fuel to the fire already burning in her chest.
They had been in Sendai for more than three exhausting weeks, each day a relentless cycle of hopes raised and dashed, following the trail of an art critic—Tsukishima Daigo—the last known buyer of her cursed painting of Desire. But every lead they uncovered had turned into a dead end, slipping out of reach just as they thought they'd finally found something. Aoi had sensed the presence of the painting several times, the tug of their bond flaring to life, only for it to vanish again without a trace. It was as if the painting itself refused to be found, slipping through their fingers at the last moment.
Frustrating didn't even begin to cover it. She was certain Satoru was just as irritated as she was, though he'd never admit it.
And now, after weeks of combing every gallery in Sendai, they'd stumbled upon the tiniest glimmer of progress. They'd started scouring galleries with a purpose, reasoning that if the buyer was a renowned art critic, he might have displayed the painting in a private or exclusive collection. Finally, their efforts had borne fruit. In the last gallery—a small, elite space owned by some absurdly rich private collector—they'd managed to dig up something.
Satoru had turned on his charm, chatting up the gallery hostess with ease. While Aoi's attention had been split between frustration and exhaustion, his practiced charm had worked its magic. The hostess, with wide, enamored eyes, had given them more than they'd hoped for: an invitation to an exclusive art auction and her phone number scribbled on the back with a heart. Aoi had snatched the booklet the moment he'd stepped outside, barely glancing at him as she flipped through it.
The slick, high-quality paper boasted images of priceless works, each photograph framed by gilded borders, announcing their grandeur to potential bidders. And there, nestled between an oil painting by a famous European master and an intricate sculpture from the Heian period, staring back at her in bold, pristine print, was her painting—mocking her with its audacious presence.
