Xanthia had always been fascinated by the street artists she’d often seen at tourist spots—the ones who could sketch a portrait in the blink of an eye and sell it for a few coins. She used to imagine what it would be like to do the same, creating art for fun and making a little extra cash along the way. The idea of capturing a person’s likeness seemed so simple, yet so full of charm.

  Now, with her Terrifying Brush in hand, she felt certain that she could do better than those artists. She could sketch faster, sharper, and with more detail than any of them, and the portraits would practically glow with life. Her skill, after all, was practically out of this world.

  With a cheeky grin, she confidently announced this to Santos El Zanthos, who was lounging nearby. But his response was anything but impressed. His lips curled into a smirk, and he raised an eyebrow. “Oh, really? Let’s see this so-called ‘legendary’ talent of yours. I bet you can’t impress me. If your art’s a flop, you’ll be joining my band. Deal?”

  Dionysius and Dematero exchanged curious gnces. They weren’t exactly sure how skilled Xanthia was with a pencil, but they knew one thing: she had a knack for surprising people. If anyone could pull off something amazing, it was her.

  Besides, if Xanthia did end up in Santos's band, she’d be the star. It didn’t matter what role she took—everyone knew the lead singer was the one who stole the spotlight. Santos could be dramatic and a bit over-the-top, but he was serious about his band, and if it succeeded, it’d be Xanthia taking the limelight, not him.

  Dionysius and Dematero were eager to see Xanthia’s sketches, but they knew street portraits weren’t exactly a sign of artistic greatness. They’d seen them before, usually at tourist traps, spped onto T-shirts and mugs as cheesy souvenirs. People loved them, convinced that wearing a shirt with their own face was the ultimate statement of individuality—nothing like a generic brand-name tee, after all.

  Before starting, Dionysius ushered everyone into Xanthia’s art studio, which he had carefully arranged into a cozy retreat. A lovely tea table sat in the center, and the whole room radiated warmth and comfort. It was the perfect pce to get inspired—and perhaps even plot some of his schemes. This studio wasn’t just Xanthia’s. No, it was Dionysius’s secret base of operations, cleverly disguised as her “art space.”

  “If only Miss Seranthalia were here,” Santos remarked, eyeing the tea set. “Her tea skills are legendary. Guess I’ll have to take the reins.”

  Santos, despite his boyish looks, had a fir for refined things, like making tea. He poured it with a flourish, as though preparing for an aristocratic audience. Dionysius, watching him, couldn’t help but nod in approval. “Well done, Santos. I didn’t know you had it in you.”

  Santos puffed out his chest, casting a smug gnce at Xanthia. He knew she’d never be able to outdo him in the tea department. But Xanthia wasn’t concerned about tea ceremonies. She preferred sugary, calorie-packed milk tea to any delicate brew.

  Dematero, observing with a raised eyebrow, shrugged. “It’s just hot water and leaves. All this show is pointless. The only thing that matters is the quality of the leaves.”

  Santos’s eye twitched. Rude. But he didn’t respond, knowing Dematero’s bluntness all too well.

  Then Dematero turned to Xanthia with a knowing grin. “If you’re not into this tea nonsense, I can grab you a milk tea from Yumu Tea. Your usual Mango Pomelo, full sugar, no ice, right?”

  Without waiting for an answer, he was already tapping away on his phone, pcing the order.

  Xanthia’s eyes widened in mock surprise. “Dematero, how did you know my exact order?”

  He smiled faintly, his gaze softening as though recalling an old memory. “Your brother told me. He knows your taste.”

  Dionysius arched an eyebrow, confused. Did I? He hadn’t realized he’d mentioned Xanthia’s preferences, but Dematero seemed to know everything without asking.

  Xanthia smirked, nudging him pyfully. “Brother? I’m the older one. He should call me ‘big sis.’”

  Dematero ughed quietly, rolling with it. “Understood, big sis.”

  Dionysius, predictably, protested. “Hey, I’m not the little brother!”

  Xanthia, ignoring him completely, decred, “Alright, enough with the tea talk. Let’s settle down and sip it while I draw.”

  Santos blinked in confusion. “Don’t we need to, like, pose or something for you to sketch us?”

  “No need,” Xanthia replied confidently, a mischievous gleam in her eyes. “I’m a prodigy. You could be running around, and I’d still capture your portrait perfectly.”

  And with that, she set up her easel a few feet away, took her pencil in hand, and began her work—starting with Santos, the one most eager to see her fail.

  What he didn’t know was that the Terrifying Brush had a mind of its own. Even with ordinary sketches, it always added something strange, something uncanny. Xanthia had learned to expect the unexpected, especially with this particur tool.

  As she worked, Dionysius and Dematero leaned in, eager to watch. Her pencil moved with fluid grace, every line precise and filled with such life that it was almost unnatural.

  “Wow,” Dionysius muttered, eyes wide. “She’s… amazing.”

  “This is nuts,” Dematero added. “It’s just a quick sketch, and she’s already making Santos look so real.”

  When Xanthia finally finished, Santos rushed over to see the result. His face went pale as he gazed at the sketch, his jaw dropping in disbelief.

  “That’s… that’s me?” he whispered, his voice filled with unease. “It’s me, sure, but something about it is… off. The vibe is all wrong.”

  Dionysius groaned, shaking his head. “You’re just upset because you lost! ‘Wrong vibe’? Please, just admit it and move on.”

  Dematero nodded in agreement. “Yeah, Santos, enough with the theatrics. It’s a great sketch.”

  But Santos wasn’t done. He crossed his arms and stared at the portrait, as though trying to unravel some mystery. “No, I mean it. This version of me feels… eerie. The longer I look at it, the creepier it gets. I’m way cooler than that.”

  Xanthia, gncing at the sketch herself, could see why. The Terrifying Brush had worked its usual magic—turning an otherwise fwless drawing into something strange and unsettling. But that was just how it worked. She couldn’t control it.

  Dionysius and Dematero exchanged a look. What had Xanthia been up to in her spare time? The Terrifying Brush had certainly added an eerie twist, but there was more to it than that.

  With a shrug, Xanthia grinned at Santos. “Alright, you win. I’ll join your band. Sounds like fun, anyway.”

  Santos grinned back, no longer bothered by the portrait. “Perfect! We’re going to take the world by storm!”

  But Dionysius and Dematero weren’t so quick to dismiss the strange vibe. Xanthia’s skill was undeniable, but what was it about her portraits that felt so… off?

  She moved on to sketch Dionysius and Dematero, and the same uncanny quality lingered. Her technique was fwless, but the portraits still felt wrong—just not as much as Santos’s. It was as if something about them was out of pce, like pieces of a puzzle that didn’t quite fit.

  Art is life, but the ones Xanthia made seems the complete opposite of that.