He wanted ruin, so I painted him a symphony of decay.
For two days, his command echoed in the sterile silence of my cage. Show me the ruin, Elara. Or I will create it for you. It was a taunt, a challenge, a psychological knife twisted in a wound he knew was already there. The blank canvas on the easel stared back at me, a vast, white expanse of judgment. I’d tried to paint something beautiful, something serene, a lie to prove I was untouched by him. The results were insipid, soulless smears of colour that made me want to gag.
He had seen right through me. He knew the only thing I had left was my anger.
So, on the third day, I stopped fighting it. I let the fury in.
It started as a low hum in my veins, a memory of his condescending smirk, the way his presence sucked all the air from the
