Chapter Eleven: Fractured Light
The gallery's arched windows framed the Shanghai skyline, twilight bleeding into indigo as Syra adjusted the final painting—a self-portrait in fractured gold leaf, her face split into a dozen shimmering shards. The silk of her dress whispered against her thighs, its hem embroidered with Persian *boteh motifs that curled like flames. A stray strand of hair, ink-black and impossibly fine, escaped her braid to brush her collarbone. She tucked it behind her ear absently, unaware of how the gesture drew the photographer's lens—the slope of her neck, the flutter of lashes as she frowned at the lighting.
"Syra." Ms. Lin touched her elbow, her voice a steady anchor. "They're ready for you."
Syra nodded, her fingers brushing the lotus pendant at her throat—a gift from Nasreen, its edges worn smooth from years of nervous habit. She could hear the muffled hum of the crowd beyond the velvet curtain, a sound like distant thunder. *Breathe*, she told herself, *bend, but do not break*.
The curtain parted.
---
The crowd turned as one, a sea of sequins and tailored suits parting for her. Neon from the street below striped her cheekbones, catching the gold dust lingering on her fingers. She kept her gaze lowered, but when she raised it to speak, the room stilled—her eyes weren't just almond-shaped, but pools of liquid obsidian, framed by brows that arched like calligraphy strokes.
"These pieces," she began, voice trembling only once, "are about surviving the cracks."
A flashbulb popped. Later, she'd see the photo in the paper: her head tilted, throat exposed, the scar on her wrist catching the light like a misplaced bracelet.
The questions came in a torrent.
"Is this a commentary on beauty standards?"
"How much of your work is autobiographical?"
Syra's hands tightened around the podium. She could feel the weight of their stares—not on her art, but on her. The way her dress clung to her waist, the way her lashes cast shadows when she blinked. A man in the front row leaned forward, his gaze lingering on the slit of her skirt, where a sliver of toned calf gleamed in the spotlight.
"I—I paint what I feel," she managed.
Ms. Lin stepped forward, her voice slicing through the noise. "Next question, please."
---
At the reception, Mr. Liu found her. He moved like a shark, his tailored suit swallowing the light.
"You're more striking in person," he said, champagne breath warming her shoulder. "Ever consider modeling? Your… *aesthetic* could sell."
Syra's knuckles whitened around her untouched wineglass. Before she could retreat, Lin materialized, slinging an arm around her waist.
"Sorry, Mr. Liu! Our artist's booked for a real job—vandalizing elitist galleries. Priorities, y'know?"
He smirked, undeterred. "A waste. Beauty like hers doesn't stay hidden."
Lin steered Syra away, muttering, "Creep. Bet he's got a shrine to his hair gel."
Syra laughed, the sound swallowed by the city's roar, unaware of the figure below aiming a camera upward—capturing the way her dress clung to her legs, long and lean from years of running through Shanghai's labyrinthine alleys.
On the balcony, Syra clutched a steaming cup of jasmine tea, her pulse still racing. Below, a girl with braided hair threaded with crimson silk watched her from the street, a sketchbook tucked under her arm. Their eyes met—a flicker of recognition neither could explain—before the girl melted into the crowd.
At home, Syra found Nasreen hunched over the kitchen table, a faded photo of a young woman in a Isfahan courtyard spread before her. "Her name was Parisa," Nasreen said, tracing the woman's smile. "My cousin. She painted too, before the war took her."
Syra's breath caught. "You never told me."
Nasreen pressed the photo into her palm. "Some stories need the right moment to breathe."
In her room, Syra unbraided her hair, letting it fall in a dark cascade. A package waited on her bed—no return address. Inside, a spool of crimson thread and a note: "For the cracks they can't see."
"Got a hit on the stalker's IP," Lin said, barging in with her laptop. "He's been tracking your phone for weeks. Time to ghost this creep."
Syra stared at the screen, a map of her daily routes pulsing red. "How?"
Lin grinned, tossing her a burner phone. "Welcome to the dark side, princess."
That night, Syra dreamt of the stalker's hands—not violent, but reverent—arranging roses around a photo of her laughing with Lin. She woke gasping, her sketchbook already open to a new page: a girl with braided silk hair, her hands stitching gold through fractured glass.
As dawn broke, Syra pinned the sketch to her wall. Outside, the stalker adjusted his lens, capturing her silhouette against the rising sun. His finger hovered over *send*—but for the first time, he hesitated.