Chapter 67: The Studio Unveiled

The ride back from the restaurant was quiet. The city lights blurred past the tinted windows of the car like streaks of gold and neon. Leo sat between Dmitri and Ivan, his mind still drifting back to the man at the bar. He could still feel that cold gaze on the back of his neck.

"You're still thinking about him," Ivan said, breaking the silence. He didn't sound angry, just observant. He draped an arm over Leo’s shoulders, drawing him closer.

"I'm trying not to," Leo admitted. "It was just a weird feeling. Like he knew me, even though I’ve never seen him before."

Dmitri, sitting on the other side, took Leo’s hand and began tracing the lines on his palm with a thumb. "People like that are just ghosts, Leo. They flicker in and out of the lives of people who actually matter. You shouldn't give a ghost so much of your energy."

"I guess you're right," Leo sighed, leaning his head back against the leather seat.

"We have something to change your mood anyway," Ivan said, a playful spark returning to his eyes. "Something we’ve been working on for weeks. It’s finally ready."

Leo looked from one twin to the other. "Another surprise? You guys have already given me so much. The clothes, the dinner, the security..."

"This is different," Dmitri said softly. "This is for you. For the part of you that doesn't belong to us yet. The part that lives in your imagination."

When they arrived back at the penthouse, they didn't head toward the main living area. Instead, they led Leo down a long, quiet hallway he hadn't explored much. It was at the very end of the north wing, away from the noise of the city and the bustling of the house staff.

They stopped in front of a pair of heavy, dark doors. They were sleek and modern, without any handles—just a sleek digital pad.

"Close your eyes," Ivan whispered, stepping behind Leo and placing his hands over Leo’s face. His palms smelled like expensive cologne and woodsmoke. "No peeking."

Leo laughed nervously. "I feel like I’m about to walk into a wall."

"We won't let you fall," Dmitri promised from the front. Leo heard the soft beep-hiss of the doors sliding open. "Okay... now. Open them."

Ivan pulled his hands away.

Leo took a step forward and gasped. The room was massive. The ceilings must have been twenty feet high, with floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out over the sleeping skyline. The walls were a crisp, clean white, designed to catch and bounce every bit of light.

But it wasn't just an empty room. It was a masterpiece of utility.

Rows of brand-new easels stood ready. A massive table in the center held every type of brush imaginable—sable, synthetic, wide flats, and delicate liners. There were racks of oil paints arranged by color gradient, hundreds of tubes glistening under the recessed lighting. In the corner, a high-end ventilation system hummed so quietly it was almost silent, designed to whisk away the scent of turpentine and fixatives.

"It’s... it’s perfect," Leo whispered. He walked toward a large canvas already stretched and waiting. He ran his fingers over the texture of the fabric. "I’ve never seen a space like this. Even in the prestige galleries."

"It’s soundproofed," Ivan said, walking around the perimeter of the room. "You could scream in here, or blast music, or drop a crate of glass, and the rest of the house wouldn't hear a peep. Total silence for your process."

Dmitri followed Leo, watching his face closely. "Do you like it? We had the lighting calibrated to mimic natural daylight, even at midnight. You can paint whenever the inspiration strikes."

Leo turned to them, his eyes stinging with tears. "I don't know what to say. Why would you do all this?"

"Because when you’re happy, you’re beautiful," Dmitri said, stepping into Leo’s space and cupping his cheek. "And we want you to be the most beautiful version of yourself. Here, you can create anything. You can stay in here for days if you want. Just you and your colors."

"I feel like I don't deserve this," Leo muttered, leaning into Dmitri’s touch. "I’m just a guy who likes to paint. This is... this is a temple."

"It’s your temple," Ivan added, joining them. He wrapped his arms around both of them, creating a tight, warm circle. "We want you to feel safe here. No distractions. No journalists. No strange men at bars. Just safety."

They stayed there for a long time, talking about the projects Leo wanted to start. He felt a surge of genuine excitement. He imagined spending his mornings here, the sun flooding the floor, his hands covered in blue and gold. He felt loved. He felt protected.

Eventually, the twins grew tired.

"We should get some sleep," Dmitri said, kissing Leo’s forehead. "You can stay here a bit longer if you want to explore the supplies. Just don't stay up all night. We have a meeting in the morning, but we’ll have breakfast with you at eight."

"I'll just stay for ten minutes," Leo said, beaming. "I want to organize the brushes."

"Ten minutes," Ivan teased. "We’ll be waiting in the bedroom."

They stepped out, the heavy doors sliding shut with a soft, pneumatic thud.

Leo stood in the center of his new kingdom. He felt like a king. He walked over to the brushes, running his hand over the soft bristles. He looked at the paints. He looked at the view. He felt so lucky.

Then, he noticed something.

He walked back toward the entrance, curious about how the doors worked from the inside. He wanted to know if he could set the lighting from a panel near the exit.

He looked at the smooth, white surface of the interior doors.

There were no handles. There was no digital pad. No buttons. No emergency release.

The inside of the doors was completely flat, a seamless sheet of reinforced material.

Leo’s heart gave a strange, tiny skip. That’s weird, he thought. Maybe it’s voice-activated?

"Open," Leo said.

Nothing happened.

"Door open," he said, a little louder.

Silence. The soundproofing was so good that he couldn't even hear the faint hum of the elevator in the distance. He was in a vacuum.

He walked closer and pressed his palms against the door. He pushed, but it didn't budge an inch. He looked for a sensor, a hidden latch, a lever. There was nothing.

He looked at the walls near the door. Nothing.

A cold realization began to crawl up his throat, replacing the warmth of the wine. He remembered the click he had heard when the twins left. It hadn't been the doors settling. It had been a lock.

He looked back at the beautiful studio. The expensive paints, the perfect light, the silent air. It was a masterpiece. It was a gift.

But as he looked at the window, he realized how high up they were. There was no balcony here. Just glass and the long, long drop to the street.

Leo turned back to the door and hammered his fist against it. It didn't even make a sound. The padding and the soundproofing swallowed the noise of his panic.

"Dmitri?" he called out. "Ivan? I can't get out!"

No one answered.

He stood alone in the perfect, white room. He looked at the easels. They looked like skeletons in the bright, artificial light.

He realized then that the twins hadn't built him a studio.

They had built hi

m a cage. And they were the only ones with the key.