Preparing for the Art Exhibition

(Henry's POV)

The large gallery hall was quiet, the walls adorned with my paintings, each one a reflection of a past I had buried.

Tomorrow, the world would see my work.

But tonight?

Tonight, I was alone with my thoughts.

As I adjusted the final placement of a canvas, my mind wandered.

To Katerina.

To Oberan.

To every betrayal I had ever witnessed.

I exhaled sharply, my golden eyes narrowing.

Then, in a low voice, I asked:

"System, tell me… why do all married women cheat? Do they not think twice before throwing themselves into another man's arms?"

The familiar holographic blue screen appeared before me.

---

[SYSTEM RESPONSE]

"Not all married women engage in infidelity. However, patterns suggest that power, dissatisfaction, and emotional neglect often contribute to such behavior."

"In your case, past interactions show that Katerina was not lacking in comfort, nor were her material desires unfulfilled. However, she actively chose to betray her commitment despite having stability."

"Statistically, individuals who feel entitled, superior, or emotionally disconnected are more likely to rationalize infidelity."

"Would you like a psychological breakdown of past cases related to your experience?"

---

I scoffed. "No need."

I already knew the answer.

It wasn't lack of love.

It wasn't neglect.

It was arrogance.

Katerina thought she was untouchable.

She thought I would always be there, waiting for her, forgiving her.

And now?

She couldn't stand the fact that I had moved on.

I smirked, adjusting my black gloves, my voice calm.

"System, remind me… what was Katerina's biggest mistake?"

---

[SYSTEM RESPONSE]

"She underestimated the man she betrayed."

---

I chuckled, stepping back to admire my work.

Tomorrow, people would see my art.

Tomorrow, I would remind the world—and Katerina—that I was no longer the man she could control.

I was Henry Hans.

And I belonged to no one. I took a step back, scanning the final setup of my art exhibition.

The gallery was silent, the dim lighting casting soft shadows over my paintings, each one a reflection of past emotions, struggles, and rebirth.

Tomorrow, the world wouldn't see Henry Hans, the Divine Executioner.

Tomorrow, I would be Liberty—the artist.

I smirked, rolling my shoulders as I exhaled slowly.

"Alright… Time to be artist Liberty tomorrow."

For once, I wasn't hunting.

I wasn't fighting.

I wasn't executing demons.

Tomorrow, I was simply a man who painted his truth.

And if Katerina showed up?

Then she would see exactly what she lost.

Artist Liberty Awakens)

The night was alive.

Inside the prestigious Oslo Art Gallery, the air buzzed with conversation, glasses of expensive wine clinking as the city's wealthiest elites, critics, and art lovers gathered to admire the work of the mysterious new artist—Liberty.

That was me.

Dressed in a perfectly tailored black suit, a deep navy dress shirt underneath, I exuded calm confidence as I stood near one of my largest paintings—a storm of colors and emotion, capturing the raw essence of power, loss, and rebirth.

People whispered my name. "Liberty."

They didn't know my past. They didn't know my true identity.

And that was exactly how I wanted it.

A well-dressed man in his 50s, a renowned art critic, approached me with a glass of wine in hand.

"Mr. Liberty, your work is… breathtaking. There's a darkness to it, yet an undeniable strength. Tell me, what inspires you?"

I smirked slightly, taking a slow sip of my own drink before responding.

"Rebirth." My voice was smooth, composed. "The destruction of an old self to create something greater."

The critic nodded, clearly intrigued. "Fascinating perspective. Many artists chase permanence, but you embrace change."

I chuckled. "Permanence is an illusion. We all evolve, whether we want to or not."

I could feel eyes on me.

Some curious. Some admiring.

And then—one gaze that burned with something more.

I already knew she was here.

Even without looking, I could sense her presence—her frustration, her desperation.

Katerina Maa, standing across the room, holding a glass of red wine like it was her only lifeline.

She looked stunning, of course—she always did. A figure-hugging black dress, her dark eyes scanning the room until they landed on me.

I didn't react.

To me, she was a stranger.

And I would make sure she felt that.

She took a hesitant step forward, her lips parting as if to say my name—

But before she could, another art collector approached me, stealing my attention.

A woman, elegant and confident, held out a hand. "Liberty, your paintings speak to me in a way few ever have."

I turned to her with a charming smirk, taking her hand gently.

"That's the goal, isn't it? To reach people without words?"

She laughed, eyes sparkling. "You're quite mysterious, aren't you?"

"Mystery keeps things interesting."

From the corner of my eye, I saw Katerina tense.

I could feel her frustration, her disbelief.

She had expected a reaction.

She had expected me to acknowledge her.

Instead, I treated her like she was nothing.

Like she never mattered.

She stepped closer, finally speaking. "Excuse me."

I turned to her slowly, my golden eyes cool and unreadable. "Yes?"

Her breath hitched, as if she wasn't sure what to say now that she had my attention.

"I… Your work is impressive." Her voice was composed, but I could hear the strain.

I tilted my head slightly, as if I were seeing her for the first time.

"Thank you," I said, my voice smooth but distant. "And you are?"

Her eyes widened—just for a second.

She swallowed hard, masking her shock. "I—I'm Katerina Maa."

I gave a polite, indifferent nod. "Nice to meet you, Ms. Maa."

And then, just like that—I turned away.

Leaving her standing there.

Like she was nobody.

She didn't move.

She didn't speak.

I could feel her staring at my back, her mind racing, her pride shattering.

She had come here expecting to shake me.

To force some kind of reaction.

Instead, I had given her nothing.

And nothing hurt more than hatred.

Because hatred meant I still cared.

Indifference?

Indifference meant she no longer existed to me.

I lifted my glass to my lips, taking a slow sip.

Tomorrow, the art world would remember Liberty.

And Katerina?

She would remember that Henry Hans was dead.