Chapter 44: The Fallen Painting

Outside the studio, the corridor hummed with the soft buzz of overhead fluorescents. Ryan slipped through the doorway just as Elizabeth arrived, her arms full of a neatly folded outfit. She didn't question the fact he was shirtless in just a wifebeater and his binder—she never did. Just handed him the clothes with the familiar efficiency of someone who had seen far too much and commented far too little.

"Thanks, Elizabeth," he said, tugging on the white blouse, black stockings, silk gloves and pleated skirt—today's assigned illusion. The wig followed. And then the iconic mask that sealed the disguise. A quick pat-down. A soft spray of perfume. Then the final transformation: his voice, softer now, lighter—her voice.

"You didn't see me," Ryan, now Rachel said with a wink.

Elizabeth smiled and nodded conspiratorily, already turning on her heel. "I never do, darling."

The change was instant. Posture—poised. Expression—demure. Smile—practiced to perfection.

And with that, Rachel reentered the studio. She walked right over to the black curtains and cleared her throat, acting as if she was just returning from somewhere else. 

"Oh!" she gasped, catching sight of Luna on the couch as she pulled back the curtain in the supply room. "Luna! What are you doing in my studio?"

Luna nearly jumped out of his skin. He stood up too fast, scrambled to smooth his hair, his shirt. "I—uh—I was just—Anna said you might still be here, and I thought—your paintings—I wanted to see what you were working on, I didn't mean to—"

Rachel turned and walked over to her easel, eyes already scanning the space. Calm. Polite. Just a little too graceful to be real.

Then she froze.

At the center of the floor lay the painting. Her park piece—smeared with streaks, unmistakable indentations punched across the canvas, and—

Rachel crouched down, inspecting the suspicious white smear with an arched brow.

Luna's face flushed crimson.

Rachel sighed, long-suffering, as though the art itself had betrayed her. "Oh no," she said airily. "Looks like the canvas fell. Got dented. That's… really unfortunate."

She stood, brushing her skirt flat, glancing at him with a faint pout. "I don't think this one's exhibition-worthy anymore."

Luna coughed into his hand. "I—I'm so sorry. I didn't mean—"

Rachel turned to him, smiling sweetly. "Oh don't worry about it. Accidents happen all the time in art studios." A pause. "All the time."

She looked right at him when she said it.

And Luna, red from his neck to his ears, could only nod and pray to every god he didn't believe in that she wasn't about to say more.