What is this?

It was massive, occupying almost the whole wall, and everyone was drawn in by its powerful hues and fine details right away. The artwork showed a huge, barren area that resembled a wasteland, bathed in a twilight glow that made it difficult to tell when day broke into night.

A lone human was seen in the foreground, standing on a crumbling cliff with their backs to the viewer and staring out over the desolate landscape. The figure had an air of worn-out defiance, as though they had fought a great many battles and were now up against one last, formidable hurdle.

The twisted remains of what may have been trees are now skeletal and blackened; the dry, cracked dirt has deep fissures as if the planet were breaking apart. The stars overhead glowed softly, as though fighting the oppressive darkness that would otherwise smother them out.

The audience let out whispers of praise and wonder, but I didn't care much about it. Instead, I stayed put, staring intently at the name next to the painting.

'The Sin of Being Me.'

I couldn't get the whirlwind of ideas flying through my head as I stood there, gazing at Apate’s painting. At first, I was skeptical, thinking this was simply a weird homage from some crazy fan or maybe a bold effort to capitalize on the popularity of my novel. The thought of it bothered me, especially because I wasn't sure what Apate wanted. Why would he pick this motif for his debut, of all things?

Is this what he meant by “stepping out of my comfort zone”? Is this some hidden ploy to create a strange collaboration or a publicity stunt?

"No, don't jump to conclusions," I murmured to myself, trying to temper the rising doubt. Apate could simply be showing admiration or gratitude for my work—it didn't necessarily have to be about me. I mean, it had been a while since I wrote anything, but I was still surprised. Still, it seemed purposeful, even daunting, to have chosen such a contentious topic for his debut.

But why now? Why here?

Before I could figure out Apate's intention, the emcee's speech interrupted my train of thought and grabbed the audience's attention.

"Come join me in welcoming Apate de los Reyes, everyone," he said, his voice full of both reverence and joy.

The room fell into hushed anticipation as all eyes turned towards the figure stepping forward. Apate de los Reyes—a slim young man with dark, long hair tied back in a ponytail—moved with an air of quiet confidence. His attire was a simple black suit that seemed almost too formal for the occasion.

“He’s handsome.”

“He has long hair for a man..."

The whispers of the crowd barely registered with me as I focused on Apate. His shadows danced across the walls as the spotlight followed him. He moved with purpose, almost in a choreographed manner, as though every stride had meaning beyond appearance. He approached the microphone with a calm, assured demeanor.

"Thank you all for being here tonight," Apate began, his voice steady and resonant. "I am honored to have the opportunity to share my work with you, especially this piece, which holds a special place in my heart.”

He paused, allowing his words to settle, and his gaze briefly met mine. In that fleeting moment, I caught a glimmer of recognition, quickly masked by a smug grin as he turned away. I resisted the impulse to furrow my brow at the smile he sent me.

"Tonight marks a turning point, not just for me, but for our understanding of art's ability to evoke emotions we never knew existed within ourselves," Apate continued, his voice resonating through the hall.

This piece," he gestured toward the monumental artwork behind him, "is titled 'The Sin of Being Me,' a reflection of my struggles and hardships of being lost in the system we call human society."

Immediately, Apate’s words caught everyone off guard, and the room was filled with whispers and murmurs. Some quickly turned on their phones and started to record Apate's speech, while others exchanged puzzled glances. The journalists hiding in the crowd perked up and raised their hands.

Me? I swore under my breath as my whole body tensed up. As soon as I understood what he was attempting to accomplish and the predicament he was going to find himself in, I had to excuse myself and move to the front.

He must be completely insane to have chosen this for his debut piece. Since most of my books are entirely fictional, I had no issue releasing them to the general public. Fiction novels are not for everyone, but those who stick with them and read between the lines will be able to decipher their meaning.

This could escalate quickly. Apate's choice to confront this head-on was audacious and even risky. If this is not handled properly, it may cause misunderstandings or even worse.

Amidst the flurry of activity, Mr. Dimagiba discreetly motioned for Apate to address the journalists. Apate, unfazed by the sudden attention, gracefully acknowledged the journalists and invited their questions.

"Mr. de los Reyes, can you elaborate on the inspiration behind 'The Sin of Being Me'?" one journalist inquired.

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Apate's response came without delay. "Certainly," he began, his voice calm and deliberate despite the flurry of questions and camera flashes directed at him. "This piece is a reflection of the existential struggles we all face in modern society—alienation, identity crises, and the perpetual search for meaning in a world that often seems indifferent and mundane."

The journalists' questions probed deeper, each answer from Apate unveiling more layers to his artwork's intent and impact. Yet with every response, the atmosphere grew more charged and the stakes higher. It was clear that this debut was more than a mere introduction; it was a statement meant to challenge perceptions and stir people’s emotions.

As this continues, I feel my uneasiness increasing by the moment. If the spotlight continued to shine on Apate and his thematic connections to my work, it wouldn't be long before the attention turned towards me. The parallels are too striking to ignore, and I couldn't afford to become embroiled in controversy.

“Mr. De los Reyes, the title of your painting, has the same name as a novel that was popular two years ago. Is there a particular reason you chose this title?"

Alright. I need to leave now.

I turned away discreetly, excusing myself from the crowd. It was a mistake to come here. I don’t want to risk things for some crazy fan who wants to take things further when I’m already struggling enough. I don’t want to get dragged into something I wasn’t prepared for.

As I slipped away from the crowd, excusing myself with polite nods and forced smiles, a sense of regret mingled with relief. Perhaps it was naive to think I could attend such an event without consequences.

"Avel Canosa, are you leaving?"

Damn it.

The sound of my name echoed through the hall, freezing me in my tracks. I turned slowly, my heart racing, to see Apate standing at the podium, a knowing smile playing on his lips. The spotlight has now turned to me. As everyone turned their attention from Apate to me, murmurs sounded throughout the crowd, waiting for my response.

“Canosa? Isn’t that…”

“Yes, it’s him…”

“Why is he here?”

The room fell silent, save for the murmurs and whispers that filled the air like a rising tide. The room around me had started to get darker as more eyes peered in my direction. I stood frozen, caught between shock and a growing sense of dread.

He descended from the stage with deliberate steps, his gaze fixed on me with admiration and challenge. As he approached, I felt a wave of unease wash over me, unsure of how to handle this unexpected turn of events.

"I didn’t know that you’d leave like that. I expected you to be more pleased," Apate remarked, his tone carrying a hint of amusement. "After all, my work draws heavily from yours."

"Apate," I began cautiously. "I appreciate the sentiment, but I hadn't anticipated..."

He cut me off with a gesture, his smile widening knowingly. "No need for modesty, Avel," he interjected smoothly as if he knew exactly where this was heading. "Your work inspired me in ways that I couldn't ignore. This," he gestured grandly to the artwork behind him, "is just the beginning."

The sound of clicking cameras and rustling excited reporters filled the hall as he spoke. I felt a knot tighten in my stomach—a cocktail of unease, curiosity, and a burgeoning sense of being exposed.

"Everyone," Apate's voice rang out, commanding attention once more, "allow me to introduce Avel Canosa, the literary prodigy.”

What is he doing? I didn't come here in this manner to "reconnect" with the creative community. I didn't come here to be suddenly thrust into the limelight.

The room seemed to darken around me. This did not feel like a fan paying respects; rather, it was a deliberate attempt to entice me back into a world I had purposefully cut myself off from.

“Avel, come to me onstage," he said, with a soft but insistent tone, extending his hand towards me as if inviting me into a dance. Could I refuse without causing a scene? Would turning him down make people focus more on me?

No. It's obvious that if I try to leave right now without speaking with Apate, people will make assumptions about me regardless of what I do. The only thing I could do now was go along with it.

Swallowing hard, I took a tentative step forward, moving towards Apate and the podium. His smile widened imperceptibly, a flicker of triumph in his eyes. Of course, you’re happy.

"Apate," I began, my voice slightly hoarse with nerves. "I appreciate your admiration for my work, truly. But I must admit, this is unexpected."

"I understand, Avel," he replied smoothly, his voice carrying over the now hushed audience. "Unexpected perhaps, but not unwelcome, I hope?"

"It's not about unwelcome," I began carefully, choosing my words amidst the atmosphere. "It's about… your work—this homage—it's powerful, undoubtedly. But I didn’t ask to be thrust into the spotlight like this. I'm not comfortable with the attention."

Apate crossed his arms. "I understand your reservations, Avel," he replied calmly. "But occasionally, the influence of art transcends the creator's intentions. I was very moved by your novel and had a deep connection with it. This painting," he gestured towards it again, "is to further that conversation and go deeper into the subjects you touched on."

I let out another sigh. “You sure are brave. Are you not worried about what people will say?”

"Worried? Certainly. But fear of public opinion should never stifle artistic expression," he replied, his voice carrying a hint of defiance. "Art is meant to provoke, to challenge, and to evoke emotions that sometimes make us uncomfortable. If we only create to please others or to avoid criticism, then we lose the essence of what it means to be an artist."

I stared at Apate as his words resonated in my mind. As he faced the audience, a subtle smile played on his lips.

The event grew more animated as the night wore on. The reappearance of a writer who had abruptly vanished, coupled with a painting inspired by his story, sparked a flurry of questions and discussions among the attendees. Journalists clamored for interviews, wanting to document every aspect of this surprising meeting point of the arts and literature.

And before I knew it, the clock struck at 10 p.m., signaling the late hour. As the crowd began to disperse, I found myself lingering near the painting, studying its details anew. Honestly, I wasn’t satisfied with how this night turned out.

I glanced one more time at Apate, who was saying goodbye to the remaining guests. Admittedly, he is such an annoying showman that I don't know where to start or how much I envy him right now.

The way he's in the spotlight, how he commands attention, and how he charms everyone with his words, it's almost...

With a sigh, I reached inside my bag and felt the pill bottle against my fingertips. This is a reminder that I’ll never be like that—someone who’s open and free, and someone who wouldn’t be afraid to show his face among the crowd and be seen.

Did I make the right decision coming here?

Apate noticed my lingering presence and walked over, his confident demeanor still intact. "Staying behind to admire the artwork, Avel?" he asked teasingly.

I turned to face him, trying to mask my mixed emotions. "It's certainly a lot to take in. I suppose I needed a moment to process everything."

“Hm,” he said, standing beside me and looking at his creation with an indescribable gaze. “I didn’t get to have the chance to ask you this earlier, but did you like it?”

I paused, considering my response carefully. "It's... powerful," I admitted reluctantly, my gaze fixed on the painting. "I like it."

“Pfft.”

His dismissive sound made me bristle slightly, but I held my ground. “What’s that supposed to mean?” I asked, my tone sharper than I intended.

Apate shrugged nonchalantly, a faint smirk playing on his lips. “It’s just that you say you like it, but your tone suggests otherwise. I was hoping for something more... genuine.”

I narrowed my eyes, feeling the tension rise between us. “What are you talking about? I do like it. I really do.”

Apate met my gaze, the smirk fading into a more serious expression. “I’m talking about honesty, Avel. You’re a writer—words are your craft. You know the difference between saying something and meaning it.”

I clenched my jaw, struggling to keep my composure. “I told you it’s powerful. Isn’t that enough?”

He shook his head slowly. “No, it’s not. You don’t like it. You’re lying between your teeth. That spending months alone in your home could turn you into this person amazes me.”

"You have no right to judge how I live my life, Apate," I snapped back, my tinged with frustration. My jaw tightened even more at his remarks. "You don't know anything about me."

His gaze was steady, almost piercing. “I know enough.”

After that, he suddenly grabbed my wrist and pulled me toward the painting. Surprised by his sudden action, I stumbled slightly but regained my balance. I jerked my wrist away, startled by his sudden move. "What the hell—don't touch me," I warned, my voice low but forceful.

He immediately grabbed my arm and slammed it on the painting, making it shudder from the impact. "The fact that you're still alive surprises me. Let’s end this officially, shall we?"

“What are you talking abo—”

Riiip!

The sound of fabric tearing filled the air as Apate's cutter slashed through the canvas of his own artwork beside my body, leaving a jagged gash in its wake. My eyes widened in horror at what I saw unfolding in front of me.

“Oh, I missed,” Apate said, tightening his grip on my shoulder.

Pkkkhht!

Before I could react, pain exploded in my stomach, a searing sensation that left me breathless. I looked down to see blood blossoming through my shirt, staining it crimson. My mind went blank for a moment as the attack's shock took over.