Part 1The Face Behind the Canvas

After failing the portfolio review for my dream art college, I had to drag myself back to the prep studio for another season of intensive training.

But the moment I walked into the painting room, I froze. Someone was driving a knife straight into Mr. Evans’s chest.

I clamped my hand over my mouth, bolted out of the building, and called 91

Yet, when I returned with the police officers, Mr. Evans was sitting calmly by the window, sipping hot tea.

He set his cup down, looking at us with utter confusion.

"Is something wrong, officers? Why are you here?"

The lead officer turned on me, his face grim as he gave me a harsh lecture.

"Prank calling emergency services is a federal offense, young lady. Don’t ever pull a stunt like this again!"

An icy chill ran down my spine.

If Mr. Evans was alive... then who was the person I saw get stabbed to death?

* * *

Mr. Evans shielded me, bowing slightly to apologize to the officers.

"I’m so sorry, officers. She probably just saw things. She didn't mean to cause trouble. Chloe, thank you for worrying about me. But as you can see, I’m the only one here, and I'm perfectly fine."

I stared at Mr. Evans. He looked and sounded exactly like his usual self.

The other students, who had started trickling in, began whispering. They all assumed I had lost my mind after failing my college admissions.

"Chloe, I know getting rejected by the art academy was tough, but you can't just make up crazy stories like this."

"Seriously. Mr. Evans has been so good to you. How could you wish death on him? Talk about ungrateful."

Mia, who had also failed her portfolio review, nodded sympathetically.

"Chloe, what's going on with you? Mr. Evans is standing right there."

The officer sighed, giving me a look of pure pity.

"Look, kids these days are under too much pressure. I’ll let it slide this time. But make sure you verify the situation before you call us next time, okay?"

How was this possible?

When I walked in earlier, I distinctly saw someone plunging a knife into Mr. Evans.

He had collapsed on the floor, pooling in a massive, sickening puddle of crimson blood.

Could the victim have been someone else?

Was the killer actually Mr. Evans?

Had he murdered someone and cleaned up the scene?

Seeing me stand there frozen, the officers nodded to Mr. Evans and turned to leave.

I rushed forward, grabbing the officer’s sleeve. My hands were shaking violently.

"Just because Mr. Evans is fine doesn't mean no one died! What if it was someone else? Officer, please, can you just look around before you go? A person might be dead!"

The officer looked at me thoughtfully, then exchanged a helpless glance with Mr. Evans.

Ultimately, he decided to do a quick sweep of the main studio.

"Kid, we checked everywhere. There’s nothing. Based on what you described, if there was a stabbing, there should be blood everywhere. But the hardwood floors are spotless. Even if a crime did happen, how could a killer clean up a massive pool of blood in less than ten minutes?"

The other students chimed in.

"Class is about to start. Who would commit a murder right now? They'd have to be stupid. The timing and place are way too risky."

"Chloe, are you sure you're not having stress-induced hallucinations?"

"Yeah, if you're sick, go home and rest. Don't ruin our studio time."

I stared at the highly polished floor, falling into a deep silence.

The officer was right. There should have been blood.

How did the killer do it?

"Officer, please, could you check the other rooms? And around the building? I swear to you, someone was hurt. Even if they aren't dead, with that much blood, they must be gravely injured. I'm telling the truth, please believe me!"

Seeing the sheer desperation in my eyes, the officer hesitated before agreeing to search the rest of the facility.

The other students lost interest, ignoring me as they sat down at their easels and began sketching.

The whole thing felt incredibly surreal.

Taking advantage of Mr. Evans stepping out to the restroom, I dropped to my knees, pretending to look for something.

Finally, in the far corner, I found it—a faint, wiped-clean smudge of blood.

There were also a few tiny, almost invisible red splatters on the wall.

Staring at those faint red spots, my hands and feet went completely numb.

Someone had been attacked here.

But the sheer volume of blood I saw earlier couldn't possibly be represented by just this tiny smudge.

What was going on?

No matter what, when we arrived, only Mr. Evans was in the room.

He had to be involved.