Chapter 1: The Final Stroke

In a dimly lit room cluttered with sketches, canvases, and paint-splattered brushes, Kaito Nakamura stared at his screen, his eyes hollow and bloodshot. Another rejection. Another soulless email from yet another company praising the efficiency of AI-generated art while politely dismissing his portfolio. It was the fifth this week.

Once, his work had been celebrated, his paintings revered for their emotional depth and delicate brushwork. But that was before the rise of AI Artisans—the soulless, unfeeling programs that could churn out masterpieces in seconds, perfectly tailored to consumer trends.

He threw his tablet against the wall, shattering the glass and sending a ripple through his scattered canvases. The world didn’t care about human expression anymore. It only cared about speed and convenience.

His phone buzzed on the desk, its blue light flickering in the darkness. It was a news notification: “Vincent Corp Unveils New AI Artist—More Human Than Ever!” The article praised Takashi Sato, the man behind the machine—a genius who’d revolutionized creativity, reducing it to lines of code.

The man who had destroyed Kaito’s dreams.

Kaito’s hands trembled as rage boiled within him. If only Sato hadn’t played god. If only he hadn’t created those abominations, maybe Kaito’s art would still matter. Maybe he would still matter.

The thought twisted in his mind, dark and consuming, until it took shape. If Sato could play god, then Kaito could play executioner.

The rain fell in heavy sheets, drenching the bustling city streets as Kaito stood before the towering glass fortress of Vincent Corp. He clutched the knife in his pocket, his fingers tightening around its handle. It felt cold, heavy—a weapon meant to sever fate itself.

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He walked through the lobby, blending in with the sea of people, all blissfully unaware of his purpose. He knew the layout, had studied Sato’s schedule. The man worked late, always perfecting his creations, never satisfied. Of course, he wasn’t. He was just another artist, trapped by his own ambitions.

But that was the difference. Sato had power. Kaito had nothing.

Kaito slipped into the elevator, his heart pounding as he pressed the button for the top floor. The ascent felt like an eternity, each second stretching as the weight of his choice bore down on him. He was past the point of no return.

The doors slid open to reveal a sprawling office bathed in fluorescent light. It was pristine, cold—devoid of any humanity, just like its owner. And there he was, hunched over his desk, eyes fixed on multiple monitors displaying digital masterpieces. Flawless. Lifeless.

“Sato!”

The man looked up, his face twisting in confusion. “Who are you?”

Kaito stepped forward, his hand tightening around the knife. “The one whose dreams you destroyed.”

The confrontation was swift, chaotic. Words of blame and disbelief were exchanged, but Kaito’s rage drowned them out. All he could see was the man who had stolen his purpose, his identity.

The blade struck, a flash of red staining the pristine office floor. Sato’s body crumpled, his eyes wide with shock. Kaito’s hands trembled, the knife slipping from his grip. It was over. The man who had killed his dreams was dead.But the victory was hollow. The room was silent, save for the hum of the monitors displaying the AI’s creations—still perfect, still mocking him.

A bitter laugh escaped his lips as he realized the truth. Even with Sato gone, the machines would continue. His revenge meant nothing.

The city lights outside blurred as tears filled his eyes. He turned, stumbling towards the window. There was only one way to end this pain, this emptiness.

With one final step, he fell into the abyss, the wind roaring around him as the world faded to black.

To Be Continued...