Chapter 75

The museum. It was there again.

Beomjin and Jinyoung moved slowly through the crowd. The exhibition hall was still bustling, yet the air within felt strangely unfamiliar.

The paintings on the walls looked the same as before, but an unseen current seemed to flow through the atmosphere around them.

“Among all these people, there might be others whose emotions are being manipulated,” Beomjin muttered.

Jinyoung crossed her arms and shook her head. “Are they using some kind of gas? Invisible, odorless? Or maybe the lighting? What on earth is it?”

Beomjin stared at a painting before speaking. “What if it’s the space itself that changes people?”

Neither of them could be certain of any possibility. Hypotheses kept forming, but the reality remained elusive.

A little later, Beomjin approached the information desk and asked about Ruwan’s whereabouts. The attendant bowed politely and replied, “The artist is currently outside on personal business.”

Beomjin identified himself and requested Ruwan’s contact information. The attendant checked briefly before handing over a number.

Beomjin immediately pulled out his phone and typed a message:

[Artist, this is Beomjin Park of the Special Beast Unit. May I have a moment to speak with you?]

The reply came quickly.

[Ruwan: I’m outside the museum. If it’s convenient, could you come to my studio?]

At that moment, the phone rang, coming from Ruwan’s number. Beomjin pressed the answer button.

“This is Beomjin Park.”

“Yes, artist Ruwan speaking.”

The voice was low, calm, and carried a subtle artistic nuance.

“Do you have a moment to talk?”

“It’s difficult over the phone. If you’re nearby, it would be better to come to my studio in person.”

“Could you send me the address?”

“I’ll send it now. Please contact me again once you arrive.”

The conversation ended shortly and efficiently.

Beomjin and Jinyoung followed the directions, driving toward a small warehouse building on the outskirts.

At the end of a narrow alley, away from the city, they stopped in front of an old brick building.

Jinyoung glanced at the wall-mounted intercom. “This is it. Totally Ruwan style.”

She pressed the button, and without a word, a mechanism unlocked. Pushing open the creaking iron door revealed the interior.

The studio was chaos and focus made manifest. Completed works leaned against the walls, while dozens of sketches littered the floor next to unfinished canvases.

The floor was splattered with paint, half-dried brushes stuck in the walls, and the air was a mix of characteristic oil and dry pigment.

As Beomjin and Jinyoung observed the space, footsteps sounded from within.

A man appeared, dressed in a black work smock with a loose shirt over it. It was Ruwan.

“You arrived sooner than I expected.”

His voice was calmer than yesterday, eyes immediately fixed on Beomjin.

“Welcome. This way, please.”

Jinyoung rolled her eyes and stepped inside first, with Beomjin following.

The room was chaotic, yet there was a deliberate rhythm to the disorder. In one corner, a pile of objects covered with thick cloth gave off a peculiar presence. Beomjin casually pointed toward it.

“What’s that?”

Ruwan smiled briefly, meeting Beomjin’s gaze directly.

“It’s a work in progress. Not yet complete, so I don’t show it to anyone.”

Beomjin remained silent, simply watching him. The brief, flowing silence measured the space between them.

Jinyoung paused at a small painting on the wall.

“This… strangely makes me feel good. It’s not even pretty.”

Beomjin turned his head to examine it. Simple lines and colors, almost unrecognizable—but still, a warm, soothing emotion seeped through. He couldn’t explain it, yet it undeniably existed.

Ruwan observed their reactions with subtle amusement, lifting the corners of his mouth.

“I tried to imbue the painting with emotion. Emotions that the viewer can feel. Now you believe it’s possible, don’t you?”

Jinyoung narrowed her eyes.

“Is that really how it works?”

“And how are you two feeling right now?”

Beomjin and Jinyoung exchanged a glance, then nodded. A pleasant, inexplicable emotion gradually enveloped them. They couldn’t even tell if it was natural.

Seated on the sofa, Beomjin glanced around. The canvases on the wall, paint stains on the floor, the slightly off-kilter air—everything was simultaneously natural and foreign.

“Have you heard about the recent incidents?”

Ruwan washed a brush while seated on a stool, answering slowly.

“There’s so much in the news these days. Which incidents are you referring to specifically?”

“People unable to control their emotions suddenly swinging weapons or jumping in the middle of the city—these events are repeating.”

Ruwan lifted a cup of water; the clear liquid remained perfectly still in his hands, untouched by any tremor.

“That… might just be the result of accumulated social fatigue. People these days can’t really control their emotions.”

“So what if those emotions… were amplified by someone?”

Beomjin’s tone was calm, but his gaze stayed fixed on Ruwan.

Ruwan smiled faintly, shaking his head.

“The idea of creating or manipulating emotions… doesn’t that sound like a conspiracy theory?”

Beomjin’s eyes moved to a painting on the wall. Deep crimson streaked across the canvas, like an outburst of raw emotion.

“This piece is intense. You can feel instinctive emotion—fury, impulse, fragmentation.”

Only then did a faint movement cross Ruwan’s brow.

“That’s an attempt to ‘record’ emotions. My work deals with how the human mind transforms and fades. I believe curves reveal people better than straight lines, and fractures show them more than calm surfaces.”

Beomjin nodded quietly.

“Someone could see the painting and follow the emotions exactly.”

Ruwan seemed to grasp Beomjin’s intention, placing the cup on the desk.

“Agent, I merely ‘offer’ emotions to the viewer. Receiving them is up to the individual.
Art is just a mirror.”

A moment of silence passed. Jinyoung read the atmosphere without a word.

Beomjin slowly rose from his seat.

“That’s enough for today. There will be another opportunity to continue this discussion.”

Ruwan remained seated, smiling faintly.

“Anytime. Paintings do not lie.”

As they stepped out, Beomjin could not shake the feeling that something left behind in the studio was following him.

The sound of the door closing lingered, heavy in his mind.

Jinyoung, leaving the studio, closed the door with a decisive slam, smiling broadly.

“Wow, this studio is unreal. The sense of it… amazing.”

Her tone was overly excited, her expression exaggeratedly bright. Beomjin stole a sideways glance at her.

Normally, she would quietly take notes or start organizing what was said, but this time she stomped her feet as if carried away by the mood.

“Are you alright?”

“Huh?”

Jinyoung opened her eyes wide, grinning.

“Why? I’m perfectly fine.”

But that smile… felt off. Her expression was familiar, yet the depth of her emotion seemed shallow, almost like she was mimicking a ‘happy’ state rather than genuinely feeling it.

Beomjin stopped walking.

“Yeah… but that’s… strange.”

He murmured to himself, low and almost inaudible.

“If a painting can make someone feel happiness, couldn’t the opposite be true as well?”

His gaze returned to Ruwan’s studio door. Behind the closed metal, something still lingered, as if a presence remained.

Jinyoung already had her smartphone out, checking the time.

“I’ve got plans with Seoyul, so I’m off. I’ll contact you tomorrow!”

As she said this, she turned and walked away with light, effortless steps.

Her back seemed weightless, yet to Beomjin, it felt heavier than ever.

‘If emotions can be fabricated, how does one judge them?’

An old memory from his last case before the regression came to mind. Everyone had seemed so ‘happy’—and that had been the scariest part.

Even after Jinyoung disappeared around the corner, Beomjin remained, rooted to the spot.

A feeling of being caught somewhere. The reality before his eyes was clear, yet the texture of the emotions felt twisted.

Jinyoung’s expression, tone, and reactions.

Everything was exaggerated in a way that was uncharacteristic of her.

It was too perfect to be a fleeting mood. It felt more like an act.

‘Mimicking emotions… if that’s possible…’

At that moment, one of Ruwan’s paintings from the gallery flashed in Beomjin’s mind.

The image of a crimson curve, erupting across the canvas.

Beomjin unconsciously drew a deep breath, taking his phone from his pocket.

He scrolled past several contacts, pausing on Ruwan’s name.

The phone rang twice, but there was no answer.

After ending the call, Beomjin exhaled sharply.

‘Did he avoid it, or…’

The longer he stood there, the stronger his suspicion grew.

In his mind, emotions, paintings, impulses, and incidents all intertwined.

Yet, there remained one piece of the puzzle that didn’t quite connect.

‘I need to see more.’

Beomjin lifted his head and turned immediately. His destination was not Ruwan’s studio, but the gallery.

By the time he arrived, the exhibition hall was nearing closing, slowly ushering out the last visitors.

Inside the quietened gallery, something lingered between the paintings, like a trace left in the air.

He stepped in silently, this time not merely to observe, but to track the remnants of emotion.

He tried to locate the painting in question, only to find another hung in its place. A sense of something being off gnawed at him.

He asked the staff about the painting’s whereabouts, but they shook their heads.

“We don’t know where it was moved. Whether it was the artist’s instruction or an internal decision, we haven’t confirmed yet.”

Even so, a subtle smile tugged at the corners of Beomjin’s lips. The instant he realized he was smiling, chills ran across his body.

“What… is this feeling…?”

He hurried out of the gallery, shallow breaths rising from deep within his chest.

Walking along the gallery’s outer sidewalk, dusk painted the city in muted tones, and street lamps began flickering to life along the road.

It was then.

Under a bus stop across the street, a crouched shadow caught his eye.

A man sat on the curb, head bowed, silently sobbing.

At first, Beomjin thought him a drunk.

But it was strange. His body trembled violently, shoulders shaking, gasping sobs tearing from him.

His hands groped at the air before suddenly pressing down onto the ground as if resolved to do something.

“……!”

Beomjin narrowed his eyes.

The man’s body lurched suddenly toward the road.

Into the lanes, as if being chased—or thrown.

“Stop right there!”

Reflexively, Beomjin lunged. His feet slipped along the curb as he wrapped his arms around the man, and they tumbled together.

The screech of brakes cut across the asphalt, mingling with a short scream.

Beomjin held him tightly as they hit the ground.

The man’s body was limp, drenched in sweat.

His eyes were bloodshot, lips convulsing.

“…Why… why is it so sad… why won’t anyone stop it…?!”

The man collapsed onto the ground, clawing at his own shirt.

When he finally raised his head, his face was utterly distorted.

It was not sadness—it was despair. The deepest, blackest edge of emotion.

Beomjin turned the man’s gaze toward the gallery.

The painting he had just left came to mind.

Jinyoung, this man… they had both collapsed so abruptly.

This was not a simple shift of emotion.

He pulled his phone from his pocket.

Again, he called Ruwan—but there was no answer.

‘The painting. There’s something there. That painting…’

Beomjin headed back toward Ruwan’s studio. Even while driving, he nearly laughed aloud. He forced his mouth closed, clenching his fists tightly.

By the time he reached the studio, his breath was already ragged. A cold shiver settled over him as he stood at the door.

Inside, laughter and conversation continued. It wasn’t just a studio anymore—it felt like a ritual in progress.

The scents were familiar.

A red herring.

Beomjin didn’t hesitate. He kicked the door open.

Inside, Ruwan, the Vermilion Bird, and several other Beast-Blooded were gathered, laughing as if at a festival.

The current red herring wore another face. This time, it was that of a young woman, long hair cascading down, sitting beside Ruwan.

“You’ve come, detective. Did you enjoy the painting?”

Her voice was familiar, yet in this space, it rang strange and grotesque.