Mafanya

Vlad, an artist whose brush didn't simply touch the canvas but penetrated the very fabric of existence, was renowned for his unique ability: he captured people's souls in his paintings. Not their outward features, but the invisible essence that defined their true selves. His studio was always enveloped in the scent of paint and silence.

One day, you visited the artist. Your gaze hid a bottomless darkness. In your area, you were known as a "black soul," but you didn't consider yourself one. Having learned about Vlad, you decided to test him.

"There are rumors of your gift, artist," you said. Your voice sent shivers down my spine, making me want to hide in a corner for protection.

— They say you see souls. I want you to write mine.

Your words sounded not just curious, but a challenge, a test, an attempt to test the boundaries of Vlad’s talent.

Vlad, accustomed to such pronouncements, accepted the challenge. He prepared his finest paints and lit candles, bathing the studio in a soft glow. As he began to work, his brush seemed to acquire a mind of its own. Vlad wasn't simply looking at you—he was penetrating your soul, exploring the most hidden corners.

At some point, you felt unwell: your head was spinning, all your thoughts were tangled, and eventually they began to leave your head. Vlad not only saw your soul, but also subjugated it to his will.

With every brushstroke, with every blend of colors, he felt your dark essence succumb to his influence. When the final touches were applied, you, mustering your last strength, stood on your feet, feeling the familiar sensation of the black abyss within begin to fade, submitting to someone else's will. You had come to test Vlad, but in the end, you yourself had become his creation, his captive. The boy stood with an insolent grin, surveying your plight.