Chapter Thirteen: The Stalker’s Shadow
The art studio smelled like rebellion—drying acrylics, citrus-scented spray paint, and the lingering sweetness of rosewater *halva Nasreen had brought earlier. Syra stepped back from the mural, her gold-leafed *eslimi patterns clashing with Jia's jagged crimson strokes. Lin, sprawled on the floor with her laptop, snorted at the screen.
"Stalker-Boy's latest DM:
'Your scars are constellations I want to name." She gagged. "Who taught this guy poetry? A funeral director?"
Jia flicked paint at the wall. "Send him a photo of your middle finger. In 4K."
Syra's laugh faltered as her phone buzzed—a calendar alert. Ming's Portrait Session - 3 PM. Her cheeks warmed. Ming, the quiet transfer student with ink-stained fingers and a sketchbook full of birds in flight, had asked to draw her for a class project. "Not your face," he'd clarified quickly. "Your hands. They tell better stories."
The delivery knock came—three sharp raps.
The box held a paintbrush older than her parents, its handle carved with Persian phoenixes. Syra's breath hitched. Parisa's brush. The one from the photo of her great-aunt, killed before she could finish her masterpiece.
"Black market vintage," Lin whistled. "Creep's upping his game."
Jia traced the bristles. "This isn't a threat. It's a challenge."
---
That night, Syra fell into the brush's memories:
Parisa's studio in Isfahan, walls alive with murals of lovers entwined in pomegranate vines. A man's voice at the window: "Why hide your beauty here?"
Parisa didn't look up. "My art isn't for your eyes."
Camera flash. Fire.
Syra woke gasping, the brush cold in her grip.
---
Ming arrived at the studio with charcoal sticks and a box of *tanghulu*. "For courage," he said, offering the candied hawthorns.
Syra's hands trembled as she arranged them on a plate. "Why my hands?"
He opened his sketchbook to a page of wings—sparrow, crane, phoenix. "Hands build. Hands fight. Hands…" He hesitated. "…hold others when words fail."
She let him draw her—the scarred wrist she usually hid, the gold-stained fingertips. His gaze was intent but gentle, lingering on her strength, not her fragility.
"You're staring," she mumbled.
"You're glowing," he said simply.
---
Lin traced the stalker to an abandoned factory. Syra went alone, Parisa's brush in her pocket.
The third floor stank of chemicals and jasmine perfume. He stood before a mural of her life—photos of her scars, her art, her midnight runs through Shanghai's alleys.
"You're perfect," he breathed. "But they'll ruin you. Let me save you—"
Syra swung the brush. It cracked his jaw.
He laughed, blood on his teeth. "You think he sees the real you? That boy with his pretty sketches? You're a fantasy to him!"
She fled, his screams chasing her: "YOU'LL COME BACK WHEN HE BREAKS YOU!"
---
Ming found her on the studio roof, tears cutting through gold paint. Without a word, he opened his sketchbook.
- Hands cradling a dying sparrow (age 10)
- Fingers gripping a hospital pen, writing "I'm sorry" (age 13)
- Palms pressing gold leaf into cracks (today)
"I asked around," he said softly. "Not to stalk. To understand."
She stared at him. "Why?"
He touched her wrist, his thumb brushing the scar. "Because the girl who survives fire… deserves someone who loves her smoke."
---
They painted over the stalker's photos that night—Syra's gold, Jia's crimson, Lin's neon insults. Ming sketched them working, his lines tender where the stalker's had been cruel.
Nasreen brought *samanu at dawn, the sweet wheat pudding steaming. "Parisa's last painting was a lovers' embrace," she said, pressing Syra's hands around the brush. "She never finished it. You will."
---
Ming returned the next day, rain soaking his shirt. "I don't want to be your fantasy," he said, voice raw.
Syra reached for his hand, their fingers brushing. "You're not. But I'm not ready to be anyone's forever."
He nodded, his smile bittersweet. "I'll wait. As long as it takes."
Outside, the stalker's camera flashed.
Let him see, she thought. Let him see I'm already loved.