The City of Warped Canvas

Shanghai, August 11, 2025, midnight, “Boundless Light” Gallery. The rain fell in delicate threads, pattering against the glass dome of the gallery. Inside, the lights blazed, champagne flutes clinked, and the city’s elite mingled in their tailored suits and gowns, their voices a low hum as they discussed the star of the night—27-year-old genius painter, Gu Xingzhou. Gu Xingzhou stood in the center of the exhibition hall, his ill-fitting black suit hanging loosely on his frame. His eyes were hollow, distant, as if seeing something beyond the room. His paintings lined the walls, their colors twisted and writhing, the lines seeming to pulse with life, as if something trapped within the canvas was struggling to break free. The theme of the exhibition was “The Nameless City,” each piece radiating an unsettling beauty, whispering secrets no one dared to name. “Mr. Gu, your work is… astonishing,” a critic in gold-rimmed glasses ventured, his voice faltering. His gaze lingered too long on one of the paintings, his pupils trembling as if caught in a trance. Gu Xingzhou didn’t respond. He stared at his hands, fingertips still smudged with wet paint. A sound buzzed in his mind—sharp, fractured, like a swarm of insects gnawing at his thoughts. This was his “gift,” one he’d had since childhood: he could see what others couldn’t. Cracks in the air, distorted figures on the streets, massive silhouettes looming in the night sky. He painted these “things” to trap them on canvas, to keep them from consuming him. But each stroke eroded his sanity a little more. Doctors called it severe schizophrenia, prescribed pills that dulled his mind, but he knew better. Those drugs would make him a husk, blind to the “truth.” He’d rather go mad than lose his ability to see. “Mr. Gu?” The critic tried again, his voice tinged with unease. Gu Xingzhou’s head snapped up, his gaze cutting through the crowd to a painting in the corner. It was his latest work, finished just last night, titled The Eye of the Rift. The canvas depicted a massive eye, pieced together from countless fragments of color, staring out at the viewer as if it could swallow their soul. “Don’t look too long,” he warned softly, but no one heard. The exhibition reached its peak as a pianist began to play, her notes weaving through the air, intertwining with the eerie aura of the paintings. The atmosphere thickened, the air heavy with something viscous and unseen. Suddenly, a woman in a red gown screamed. She stared at The Eye of the Rift, her hands clawing at her face, tears streaming between her fingers. “It’s watching me! It’s watching me!” she shrieked, lunging at the canvas, trying to tear it apart before security dragged her back. The crowd stirred. Whispers turned to murmurs, then to chaos. Some covered their ears, others dropped to their knees, scratching strange symbols into the floor with their nails. Gu Xingzhou stood frozen, a familiar chill crawling up his spine—the “pollution” had begun. His paintings weren’t just art. They were conduits for “cognitive pollution.” Those who gazed too long were infected, their minds invaded by the “things” hidden in the canvas. The victims would succumb to an uncontrollable urge to create—painting, writing poetry, even carving into their own flesh to replicate the unspeakable entities they glimpsed. “Stop!” Gu Xingzhou rushed toward The Eye of the Rift, desperate to cover the canvas, but it was too late. The gallery descended into madness. A man in a tuxedo smashed a champagne glass and used the shards to carve twisted patterns into his arm, muttering, “It’s coming… it’s coming…” Gu Xingzhou’s heart pounded. This wasn’t just an art show gone wrong. This was a “****” outbreak, and he was the source. Then, the glass doors of the gallery slammed open. A woman stepped inside. She wore a black trench coat, her short hair sharp and precise, her eyes cutting like a blade. Her boots clicked against the floor with a rhythm that demanded attention, silencing the chaos for a fleeting moment. Lin Shuying, codename “Raven,” was an agent of the “Purge Bureau,” tasked with neutralizing “cognitive pollution” events and eliminating the “anomalies” that seeped through cracks in human consciousness. In her hand was a dagger, its blade etched with intricate runes glowing faintly blue. “Everyone, get out,” she commanded, her voice low but laced with undeniable authority. No one dared disobey. Security and guests stumbled toward the exit under her piercing gaze. Lin Shuying’s eyes swept the room, locking onto Gu Xingzhou. “You’re Gu Xingzhou?” she asked, her tone cold as ice. He didn’t answer. His gaze fell to her dagger, feeling an odd pressure from it, as if it could sever the buzzing in his mind. For the first time in years, he felt a moment of clarity. “Do you know what you’ve done?” Lin Shuying pointed at The Eye of the Rift. “Your paintings opened a ‘rift,’ letting those things leak out. Tell me how you did it.” Gu Xingzhou gave a bitter smile. “I just painted what I saw.” Lin Shuying’s eyes narrowed, the dagger’s blue glow pulsing faintly. “Then you’d better hope I can clean up this mess.” She turned to The Eye of the Rift, her dagger slicing through the air. A sharp, otherworldly screech erupted from the canvas, as if something inside had been wounded. The crowd’s frenzy weakened, though a few still twitched on the floor, muttering incomprehensible words. Lin Shuying didn’t arrest Gu Xingzhou immediately. She needed him. He was the only one who could “see” the rifts, and his paintings, dangerous as they were, might be the key to tracking the pollution’s source. “You have two choices,” she said, sheathing her dagger, her voice devoid of warmth. “Come with me and help me find the source of this pollution, or I lock you in a Purge Bureau isolation cell, and you’ll never touch a paintbrush again.” Gu Xingzhou met her gaze, the buzzing in his mind growing louder. He knew that following her might lead to answers—what were these “things” he saw, and why was he the only one who could see them? But he also knew the path might drive him to madness. “Fine,” he said quietly. “But I have one condition.” Lin Shuying raised an eyebrow. “Speak.” “Let me finish one last painting,” Gu Xingzhou said, his eyes drifting to The Eye of the Rift. “I need to know… what it’s trying to tell me.” Lin Shuying was silent for a moment, then nodded. “Deal. But if you cause another outbreak, I’ll destroy your brushes myself.”