Three days had passed since Elena destroyed the envelope, and paranoia clung to her like a second skin. Every shadow felt like a threat, every corner a potential ambush. Now she stood in the converted Pantin warehouse, surrounded by her work.
The gallery hummed with opening-night energy—or what passed for it in this crowd. Her City Fractures series commanded the main hall—ten large canvases of shattered skylines rendered in charcoal and thick impasto, their cracked surfaces mimicking fractured bone. Harsh track lighting threw dramatic shadows across the raw brick walls.
Critics in berets sipped cheap rosé like it was champagne. Collectors in expensive wool circled slowly, appraising her pain with the same detached interest they'd give a stock portfolio. A jazz track played tinnily overhead, the kind of ambient noise that screamed "we're cultured." Sweating cheese cubes waited on plastic platters.
It all felt so performative. The thoughtful nods. The hushed tones. The way people tilted their heads at her work like they were decoding some profound mystery instead of just looking at a woman's breakdown rendered in paint.
Elena drifted through in a simple black dress, her smile tight and hollow. She shook hands mechanically, answering the same questions on autopilot. "Such bold fractures—are they personal?"
Elena took a long sip of wine. A pity party, she thought bitterly. That's what this is. Trauma tourism. My pain on display so people can feel something for an hour before they go home to their comfortable lives.
She needed air.. or at least distance. Moving toward the adjacent room, she passed a cluster of collectors murmuring about "raw authenticity" and "emotional truth." The words felt like hands pawing at her insides.
The next gallery space was quieter, less crowded. She wandered past a video installation, some minimalist sculpture, and then.
She stopped.
A canvas hung slightly crooked on the far wall. It was a pencil sketch, clearly done by a child: a grinning figure with wild scribbled hair, oversized glasses perched on its head, and buggy eyes. The proportions were all wrong—stick arms too long, body too short, a black tie dangling awkwardly. One hand held what might have been a microphone or a weapon; it was impossible to tell. In the corner, shaky handwriting spelled out … what was even spelled out ? No proper title card. No artist statement.
Elena stared at it. The figure looked... unhinged. Almost comically disturbing, like a child's nightmare drawn during recess.
A man in a turtleneck stood nearby, stroking his beard thoughtfully, nodding as if decoding some profound message.
Then she felt it.
Warm breath on the back of her neck. Too close. Heavy and deliberate.
Her spine locked. Every nerve screamed. She could almost feel the presence of a nose hovering just above her shoulder, inhaling.
Elena's hand tightened around her wine glass. She didn't turn. Didn't move. Her reflection in the glass frame showed nothing but shadows and bodies behind her—but she knew.
Delaney was here. Well she couldn't name the problem yet.
The breath lingered another second, then retreated into the crowd.
Elena's heart hammered so hard she thought it might crack a rib.
"Welcome to Chicago," Elena said flatly.
Then she moved.
And spun.
Her hand shot out, grabbing Delaney from behind by the collar, yanking her forward violently. The sunglasses flew off. The hat tumbled. The scarf pulled away.
Delaney's face—exposed, shocked—barely had time to register before Elena slammed her against the brick wall.
The phone clattered to the pavement, screen splintering. Delaney tried to push back—her hands weak, ineffective—but Elena was twenty-something and fueled by three days of rage. Her knee drove into Delaney's ribs. The older woman crumpled like paper.
Elena went down with her, straddling her, fists coming down. Delaney's attempts to block were pathetic. She had no strength, no defense. Just terror.
Delaney crumpled.
Elena went down with her, straddling her, fists coming down hard. Jaw. Cheekbone. Lip splitting open. Blood on concrete.
Voices erupted. "Stop" Phones lifted, recording. Security thundered toward them.
Hands grabbed Elena from behind, wrenching her backward. She stumbled, breathing hard, knuckles slick and raw.
Delaney lay crumpled on the pavement—face destroyed, eye swelling shut, nose streaming blood. Terror in her blown pupils.
And Elena saw it: herself at seven, curled on the same kind of concrete. Her father standing over her. The same fear she'd just carved into someone else.
I became him.
Her hands were sticky with blood. Sirens wailed. The footage was already uploading.
She'd become exactly what she'd spent her life running from.
How stupid.