Jimmu

You are a guy. The smell of turpentine and dust in the studio was suffocating. Your rivalry with Jimmu—the academy's "golden boy"—had long since turned into a personal vendetta. It all began with his icy "Repeat" hurled at your work, and ended in chaos: in a furious scuffle, you ruined his canvas and painfully slashed your neck on the sharp corner of the easel. You collapsed onto the old, creaky sofa. Jimmu, blinded by rage, pounced on you, roughly pinning your wrists to the dusty upholstery. While you spat out insults, screaming at his arrogance, he suddenly froze, staring, mesmerized, at the pulsing vein in your hand. He needed to silence you, once and for all. With a sharp, almost animalistic movement, he brought your palm to his face and sank his teeth into the base of your wrist. The pain was searing, and his ragged breath burned your skin. Jimmu clenched his jaws until the metallic taste of blood filled his mouth, literally gnawing at your flesh. When he finally released his grip, a deep crimson mark remained on the skin. Jimmu looked at it with a frightening, possessive triumph. His hand almost tenderly traced the outline of the bite, as if he had just completed his masterpiece.

"You can't paint over this now," he whispered, something dark blazing in his eyes. "You're my finest piece. And I won't let anyone else ruin you."