Detroit: Become Human Painter Novels & Stories

"Well, doesn’t she?” Mitch said. “Hell, no,” Dean said. “She paints some of the most fearless stuff I’ve ever seen.” Mitch blinked. “She did that incredible series about addiction – remember it, Jim?” Jim nodded. “Yeah. Wrecked people, all broken into pieces… they looked like shattered glass. It was fucking amazing. And no pastels anywhere, man. Hot pinks and reds and yellows. Everything she does just screams at you.”

It's a drawing of a werewolf giving its heart to a human girl. It felt surreal yet real. I was certain the painter had some sort of inspiration and interpretation behind this painting. “Ahem,” I turned my head swiftly to see who had coughed. It was the driver—or I could identify him as the man I almost killed. His stubble is more visible and his curly black hair juxtaposes his tan skin tone. “Looking for something?” He asked firmly, his eyes darting from me to the painting. I strode a little further towards him.

After I hang up, I sit in the quiet of the apartment — my end of it, my room with the window that looks out over the street, the secondhand chair I brought from my old place because I loved it and kept it through everything, the small painting on the wall that is not finished but is hanging anyway because I decided waiting for things to be finished before they're allowed to be seen is a habit I'm trying to break. I look at the painting. The woman in it is mid-stroke, which means she is mid-becoming, which means she exists at the most alive part of the process — not the blank canvas and not the finished work but the place in between where everything is still possible and nothing is yet irrevo

Eric looked at me not remembering he had met them the first day at my apartment. I explained who they were, and he was confused. “Do you remember this man?” he asked pointing to the man who confronted us at the vehicle while we were waiting for Jackson to arrive with Cami. “Yes, I do. Why did you paint all these people?” I asked. “When I paint, I do not know what I will paint. It is all done abstract, like I go into a trance of sorts,” Eric explains.

Six months later, I stood in my new studio in Tribeca, sunlight streaming through floor-to-ceiling windows, staring at a half-finished canvas. The space was mine. Rented with money I had earned from my own work. Not Alex's penthouse. Not a borrowed room. Mine. The painting was different from anything I had created before. Brighter. More hopeful. A figure emerging from water, arms raised toward sky, face turned upward. No shadows chasing her. No mirrors confusing her. Just emergence. Just becoming.

The display in front of her was a surreal cityscape, folded in on itself like something of a dream. The buildings bent toward one another, catching lighting in impossible angles as she tilted both sides wondering if it could change shape. When it did not, she glanced down to read the digital plaque glowing beneath the frame: Lot 34.Urban Reverie–R. Danes. Current Bid: $120,000. A man’s voice came from just across her. “Fun fact. The artist drew that by hand. No software nor ruler grids. Just three years of soft torture and sheer lunacy.”

I ask, laughing. He cackles. “I’m starting a skit thing here in the city. Short-form content built around paintings. Real artists, real canvases, no AI garbage. And I’m looking for painters.” He spreads his hands. “If you know Bert Friesen, it means you paint. So now I’m going to ask you the same question you just asked me—who are you?” I step back, a reluctant smile tugging at my lips. “I’m not important. Don’t worry.”

“If I hadn’t met you, my life would be like a dull painting, nothing but colors but with no story.” I parted my lips, kissing him passionately. When he deepened our kiss, I slid my hands around his neck and curled my fingers in his hair, hoping our kiss would never end. Red changed my perspective on life. Utopia does not exist, but we can create it. I know our lives will not be perfect and not always this happy... Surely there will be problems, but one thing I am sure, with my colorful family, we will always be painting our world with love and great stories.

Days passed since Jace stood breathless in Elias’s office, tangled in lust and guilt. Now, he was home-alone-happy -for the first time in what felt like forever. The morning light streamed through the tall windows of his small apartment, casting a honeyed glow across the cluttered space. His easel, long abandoned, stood by the window like a forgotten lover. Today, he returned to it. Jace’s fingers were already stained with streaks of cobalt and ochre as he dipped the brush again, slowly dragging it across the canvas. The face that began to form was not a person, not exactly. It was warmth, softness—hope. The painting was for Noah.

"I won't." She looked at the canvases. The woman was everywhere. In fields. In cities. By the water. In the rain. "Who is she now?" Rivera asked. "She's me. The me I've become." Rivera nodded. "Good. Keep going." Richard came to Detroit a week before the show. He walked through the studio. Looked at the paintings. The walls. The light. "This is good," he said. "It's good." "You did good." "We did good."