Xanthia wielded her “Horror Paintbrush,” a tool of exceptional power, to craft portraits of Dionysius and Dematero. However, as the two stared at their likenesses, an unsettling feeling settled within them—an unease that twisted through their thoughts like a shadow.

  The reason was simple. Xanthia had painted not just their physical appearances, but something deeper, something they had buried within themselves—a side they weren’t ready to confront.

  On the surface, the portraits appeared fwless. Yet, something about them seemed off, as if each stroke had carefully trapped them within a vision they couldn’t escape.

  The “Horror Paintbrush” wasn’t just any tool. It had a peculiar, almost sinister, ability—it could capture the hidden weaknesses of those who gazed upon it and manifest those vulnerabilities in its artwork.

  Dematero studied his own portrait first, and the impact was immediate. The figure painted on the canvas wasn’t simply a reflection—it was a distorted, darker version of himself. It was the version he had once been, the one he had left behind in his past.

  The portrait depicted him with a cynical, almost defiant expression. His arrogance and bitterness were clear in every line, his eyes sharp with disdain for the world. It was as though the painting had frozen him at his worst—a time when rage and revenge had been his only purpose.

  The memories of pain and regret, the failure to heal old wounds, surged back. His heart clenched at the thought of the cruel things he had done—the girl he had never apologized to, the wounds he had left unanswered. The sight of the painting felt like a punch to the gut.

  He wanted to destroy it. He wanted to tear the canvas to pieces and erase the painful truth it represented.

  Meanwhile, Dionysius’s portrait was no less disturbing. The image staring back at him was soaked in an overwhelming sense of sorrow and isotion. It was a version of himself that had never truly existed—not in reality, anyway. The painting portrayed a loneliness so deep it seemed to echo through the canvas, a shadow of despair that weighed down the entire scene.

  Dionysius had always been successful. He had everything—talent, admiration, a life that seemed to unfold perfectly. Even his younger sister, once pgued by isotion and anxiety, had blossomed into someone joyful and healthy. But in the portrait, none of that mattered. What stared back at him was a hollow figure, forever trapped in the sorrow of loss and despair, a man broken by betrayal and grief.

  The sense of hopelessness in the painting rattled him. It was a side of him he had never seen, and he didn’t want to.

  Turning to Xanthia, his voice ced with unease, Dionysius asked, “The likeness is perfect, but why does it feel so... despairing? This version of me—it's not who I am now.”

  Xanthia, caught off guard by his reaction, gave a mischievous grin. “Ah, you’re not scared, are you? That portrait’s just a little reminder for you. Don’t get too caught up in your success, or you might become that guy in the painting. If you're not careful, you could lose yourself—trust me, brother.”

  Dionysius rubbed his chin, not entirely convinced. His younger sister’s antics were well-known, but this felt different. Still, he wasn’t going to argue with her. “Fine, I’ll keep it as a reminder,” he muttered, trying to mask his discomfort.

  Xanthia grinned, pleased with herself, but when she noticed Dematero still lost in thought, she gave him a light tap on the shoulder.

  “Hey, Dematero,” Dionysius called, noticing his friend’s distant expression, “don’t take the portrait too seriously. It’s just Xanthia showing off her skills, messing with us. Don’t let it get to you.”

  Dematero shook his head, but something about the paintings lingered in his mind. He was about to speak, but hesitated, unsure of how to express his growing concern. He didn’t think Xanthia was simply pying games. There was something deeper at py here, something more unsettling about her work.

  As he was about to voice his thoughts, Xanthia, in an uncharacteristic show of sincerity, apologized to them. She admitted that she hadn't meant to disturb them, but that her work had unintentionally stirred emotions they weren't prepared to face.

  Her apology shifted the atmosphere, lightening the tension that had gripped the room. Even Santos, usually the most stoic, couldn’t help but feel a touch of embarrassment.

  “I didn’t expect that from her,” Santos muttered. “Most people would’ve just brushed it off. But Xanthia... she owns up to it. That’s rare.”

  His words made Dionysius pause, and for the first time, he considered the depth of his younger sister’s actions. Perhaps Xanthia was more than just a pyful artist—perhaps there was something darker beneath her creations.

  As the three boys prepared to leave, they took their portraits with them, despite the unsettling feeling they invoked. Xanthia, however, didn’t return to school. She sipped on her milk tea and leisurely made her way home. She had decided to skip evening study sessions, something she had learned from her cssmate Marcus. With her homework already done and no need for midterm preparation, she saw no reason to attend.

  In the quiet of her room, she intended to explore the connection between the “Horror Paintbrush” and her “Nightmare Phone,” hoping to gather material for her next project. But as she reflected on the portraits, she wondered just how deep her own emotions ran. Could her art be an expression of something more than just technique?

  Meanwhile, as the boys walked back to school, they continued discussing Xanthia, and Dematero broached the topic again.

  “I don’t think Xanthia was just pying around with those portraits,” he said thoughtfully. “Could it be that she’s developed a dark style from her experiences? Maybe her emotional struggles have shaped her art.”

  Dionysius paused, considering the possibility. The thought of his sister, so withdrawn in her past, locked away in her room, pouring her anguish into her paintings, struck him. But he didn’t voice it aloud, and Santos, ever curious, pressed for more.

  “What do you mean? You’re saying her struggles have led her to paint like that?”

  Dematero nodded, but before he could expin further, Dionysius spoke up, his voice firm. “Xanthia’s situation isn’t something I’ve shared with you before. She’s had a rough past—depression, social anxiety... it’s been a long road for her.”

  Santos was stunned. “Wait, Xanthia had depression?” His voice cracked with disbelief. “But she’s so cheerful, so full of life. How could she have dealt with something like that?”

  Dionysius sighed, his expression darkening. “It’s complicated. I’ve never told anyone about it, but I think it’s time you know. She’s been dealing with it for years, and sometimes, it’s hard for her to keep it together. She needs to maintain a positive mindset to cope. So, if she acts out of character, you’ll understand.”

  The revetion hit Santos hard. He had never imagined the bubbly, eccentric Xanthia carried such burdens. He felt guilty for not understanding sooner.

  “I didn’t know,” he said, his voice softer now. “I just... I didn’t know.”

  Dionysius gave a small shake of his head. “Don’t mention it to her. Most people with depression don’t want to be treated like they’re fragile. Just... treat her like you would any other person. That’s what she wants.”

  Santos nodded, his thoughts heavy. “I’ll be more considerate.”

  As the conversation drifted, Dematero proposed an unsettling theory. “What if Xanthia has a split personality? Maybe the version we see now is just one side of her. When she paints, maybe her old, anxious self resurfaces.”

  The idea hung in the air, unsettling them all. Could Xanthia’s struggles have turned into something more? Something darker?

  The thought lingered with them long after the conversation had ended, and none of them could shake the feeling that there was more to Xanthia than they had realized.