Art of Misalignment

Chapter 39 Walking Corpse

Liam reached for a splintered paintbrush, but his hand wouldn't stop shaking. The bristles scraped a jagged, meaningless line against a blank canvas before the brush clattered onto the floor.

The door creaked. Evan walked in, balancing two cardboard cups of black coffee.

"Jesus, Liam. It smells like a meth lab in here," Evan said.

"Smells like the truth," Liam muttered. His voice was a dry rasp. He didn't look up.

"You look like a ghost." Evan stepped over a pile of charcoal sketches and empty bottles. "Drink this. You need to get moving. You can't just rot in this attic."

"Why not?" Liam let his head thud back against the brick. "The guy who lived in this studio is dead. There’s nothing to get up for."

Evan crouched in front of him. "So that’s it? You torch your portfolio last night, and today you can't even hold a brush? You’re letting this eat you alive."

"I'm already gone, Evan," Liam said, his eyes fixed on the ceiling.

"It meant something to Chloe," Evan snapped. "She believed in you. Maya believed you could protect her."

Liam flinched. The names were like a physical hit to the ribs. "And look where that got them. Chloe walked out because I’m a coward who can’t commit. Maya sold herself to Ethan because my 'art' couldn't pay a debt. I’m empty, Evan. I’ve got nothing left."

Evan set a coffee cup on the floor by Liam’s knee. "You’ve still got a life, man. You’ve got choices. You clean this mess up, and you start over."

"Start over as what?" Liam let out a short, bitter laugh. "Another suit in Arvin’s empire? The rich kid who finally folded? I’m done fighting. The canvas is blank, and I’m out of paint."

Evan stood up slowly, shaking his head. "You’re letting the dark swallow you, Liam. I can't pull you out of the hole if you won't reach for my hand."

"Then leave me in the hole," Liam whispered, closing his eyes.

Evan stood there in the silence for a long minute before turning toward the door. "I’ll check on you tomorrow. Don't do anything stupid."

The door clicked shut. Liam sat in the quiet. He didn't want to fix the studio, and he didn't want to fix himself.

Aimee Voss stepped inside, her stilettos clicking sharply against the soot-stained wood. She didn't flinch at the mess.

Liam didn't look up. He stayed slumped against the brick, his shirt wrinkled and half-unbuttoned.

"I came all the way downtown for a studio tour," Aimee said. Her accent was pure upscale confidence—polished, cold, and entirely unimpressed. "But it looks like I brought a Chanel suit to a demolition site. This is a hell of an aesthetic, Liam."

"Tour’s canceled, Aimee," Liam rasped. He sounded like he’d been swallowing glass.

Aimee let out a short, melodic laugh. "Oh, please. Spare me the 'tortured soul' routine. It’s a little too cliché for a Tuesday, don’t you think?"

Liam finally lifted his head. His eyes were bloodshot. He pushed himself off the floor, his joints popping in the silence. He stumbled to a battered table and grabbed a bottle of cheap bourbon. No small talk—he just poured.

"I don't have any masterpieces left," Liam said, filling two cloudy glasses to the brim. "I just have this. Drink it or leave."

Aimee brushed the dust off a stool and sat, elegant as ever. She took the glass from his shaking hand. "I never say no to a free drink. Cheers to the meltdown, kid."

She took a slow, calculated sip. To her, this wasn't a tragedy; it was a PR crisis. Liam downed his glass in one desperate, burning gulp.

"So, you torched the place," Aimee stated, resting her chin on a manicured hand. "A massive, dramatic tantrum because Maya moved into a penthouse."

"It’s not a tantrum," Liam snapped, his voice cracking with bitterness. "It’s over. I’m a fraud, Aimee. I sold my soul for pocket change and everyone saw it happen."

"You’re being a drama queen," Aimee said, refusing to give him an ounce of pity. "You didn't sell your soul. You just hit a wall. You lost your safety nets, and now you’re throwing a fit because the floor is cold."

"I lost everything!" Liam shouted, slamming his glass down. The thud echoed. "Look at the floor! There’s no coming back from this!"

Aimee didn't blink. She watched him like a damaged asset that just needed a new coat of paint. "I see burnt plastic. I see ruined oil paint. But mostly, I see a guy who’s addicted to his own misery. This isn’t a death, Liam. It’s a hangover."

Liam ran a hand through his greasy hair and let out a hollow laugh. "You don't get it. You live in a world of spin. You think everything can be rebranded."

"Because it can, Liam," Aimee said smoothly. "You think you’re the first artist to lose his mind? The first guy to screw up a relationship? Right now, you’re wallowing. But in six months, you’ll buy new canvases."

"I can't even hold a brush," Liam whispered, staring at his violently shaking hands.

"You will," Aimee said. She finished her drink and stood up, smoothing her skirt. "You just need to stop playing the martyr first. It’s exhausting. Thanks for the drink."

She turned and walked out, her heels clicking a steady, rhythmic beat. She left him in the ruins, her cynical words hanging in the air like a slap to the face.