The Last Stroke

The gallery was silent, except for the ticking of the old clock on the far wall.

Mira stood before her canvas, brush trembling in her hand. The painting was nearly finished — a storm of crimson, gold, and black swirling into the shape of an eye. It stared back at her, accusing, alive.

It had taken her six months to get this far. Six months since the fire that took her brother’s life. Six months since her hands first shook with anger so violent she couldn’t pick up a brush without snapping it in half.

But tonight, the final stroke would make it complete.

“Mira,” came a voice behind her.

She turned to see Draven, the mysterious collector who had commissioned the piece. He was tall, sharp-suited, and far too calm for a man who dealt in dangerous things.

“You’re late,” Mira said coldly.

He ignored the barb, stepping closer to the painting. “It’s beautiful,” he said. “But beauty was never the point, was it?”

Mira’s jaw clenched. “You said this painting could destroy him.”

“And it will,” Draven replied smoothly. “When the last stroke is laid, the man who burned your brother’s gallery will see it — and everything he has will unravel. His wealth, his reputation, his sanity. Art is power, Mira. You’ve made something more dangerous than a weapon.”

Mira glanced at the brushes on the table. The last color — a deep, violent red — gleamed like fresh blood in its glass jar.

“Why me?” she asked.

“Because you understand rage,” Draven said softly. “And because your pain is… honest.”

Mira swallowed hard. She had spent her entire life using art to tell the truth. Now she was about to use it to take revenge.

She dipped the brush into the red.

The gallery lights flickered. Somewhere, in the city beyond these walls, Mira imagined the man — her brother’s killer — sleeping soundly in his penthouse.

The brush touched canvas.

The paint seemed to move on its own, sliding across the surface like liquid fire. The eye widened, glowing. Mira heard a sound — faint, like someone screaming miles away.

Draven’s expression darkened with satisfaction. “It’s working.”

Mira’s heart pounded. The scream grew louder, filling the room. The gallery’s windows rattled. Her hand moved faster, adding detail to the iris, the veins, the terrible, knowing glare of the eye.

And then it was done.

The air went still.

The canvas shimmered, the colors twisting, until the painting showed a man’s face — pale, terrified, staring out as though trapped behind the glass. Mira stumbled backward.

“What… what did I do?”

“You finished it,” Draven said calmly. “His guilt has nowhere to hide now. By sunrise, the whole world will see what he’s done.”

Mira’s breath came fast. “I didn’t just paint him. I cursed him.”

Draven smiled faintly. “Justice often feels like a curse to the guilty.”

Mira sank into a chair, staring at the glowing canvas. The man inside the painting began to pound on the other side, mouth opening in a silent scream.

For the first time in months, Mira felt something like peace.

But when she looked at Draven again, she realized he was still staring at the painting — not with pride, but with hunger.

“This,” he murmured, “is only the beginning. There are others. People who deserve to be… seen.”

Mira tightened her grip on the brush.

“I painted this for me,” she said quietly. “Not for you.”

Draven’s smile didn’t fade. “And now you know what you’re capable of. That brush of yours could change the world. If you let me guide you…”

Mira stood, meeting his gaze. The red paint still glistened on the bristles.

“Guide yourself,” she said, turning back to the canvas. “I’m done taking orders.”

Draven’s smile finally broke. “You’ll be back. Once you taste power like this, you always come back.”

Mira didn’t answer.

Outside, thunder rolled. Inside, the eye in the painting blinked.