Detroit: Become Human Painter Novels & Stories

He wept and prayed, but that was not enough for him to survive the tragedy. "No!" screamed coming from Noel that his whole body was completely absorbed by the force coming from inside the canvas. The painting that Noel had been holding recently, fell to the floor. Gregorio happily approached the painting on the floor, picked it up, and looked at it carefully. His two eyes can see how the face of the man in the painting has gradually changed. In a moment, Noel's face can be seen on the man in the painting who seems to be surfing on the beach. The artist laughed again with great pleasure because he had a new collection!

It was exquisite pain. Thankfully, he finished painting my cooch and moved around to my hips. He had me bend forward. His brush began coating my butt cheeks with paint, and then all the way to my asshole. The artist even asked me to pull my butt cheeks apart so he could more thoroughly paint between them.

The hot pressure, igniting the wildfire in us, was the result of the possibilities - the result of what it could be if we let it. It was odd, how unlike myself I felt while doing this sketch. Usually, I would be painting with ease, it was something natural, it was my escape and something close to breathing for me. Thomas had managed to shake my entire world. When I was almost done with his blond hair, messed up from the fall breeze, I forced myself to keep a promise to myself. I needed to know more about Alex Band’s doppelganger. “Can I ask you about your life? I mean…what else is there, other than the popular guitarist-singer guy?” I bit my bottom lip, while my pencil caressed his jawline o

He turned and stormed out of the studio, leaving Lynn standing alone, his wrist throbbing, his heart pounding with a fresh wave of hatred. Lynn looked at the canvas, a chaotic mess of dark colors now marred by the stark black slash. He didn't get rid of it. Instead, he picked up his paints again. He worked through the night, not to create something "worthwhile," but to pour every ounce of his rage, his pain, his feeling of being trapped, onto the surface. The painting became darker, more twisted, more despairing. In one corner, almost hidden by the layers of paint, the faint, distorted outline of a man's face began to emerge, only to be consumed and torn apart by the surrounding darkness.

No makeup beyond a single swipe of matte red on her lips that matched the faint flush already high on her cheekbones. The painter—Alexander Hale—waited near the easel in the center of the room. Forty-two, lean and quiet, he had the kind of presence that filled a space without effort: dark hair streaked with premature silver at the temples, sharp cheekbones shadowed by a day’s growth of beard, hands scarred and permanently stained from years of pigment and solvent. He wore faded black jeans and a charcoal linen shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbows, forearms corded with muscle and flecked with old paint that never quite washed out. His eyes were unreadable, but they tracked her movement across

Nodding, Grandma stated, "Each extra painting is worth five million dollars." The balding man waved at her dismissively. "Money is not a problem." After that, the man rattled off a series of requests, and Grandma painted four paintings for him. This was her first time creating this many paintings at the same time. In my eyes, they all looked the same except for their expressions and some minute details. However, Beth was keenly observing the paintings from the side as if she knew a lot about it. Sometimes, she would discuss it with Grandma.

With my hand on my belly, I walked around my gallery greeting the viewers with a smile. I passed my some of my old classmates featured paintings of the month and felt proud of all I achieved. I came to a stop in front of the painting that took me eight months to finish, a crazy excruciating eight months! The black canvas was filled with strokes of blue and purple. Onlg the outlines of our bodies were painted, all the different positions were depicted and I loved this painting so much because I felt closer to him.

Jon mumbled. "And that undisclosed buyer is me," said Dante smiling widely, his sharp teeth glistening in the dim room. "Let's see if you can guess who painted the next one." Dante walked eagerly to the next painting, his cane tapping on the wooden floor like a one-legged giant insect. He likewise turned on the pin lights and the painting exploded in colors of bright red and burnt sienna. "This painting is something I really like. Tell me what you think?" The second painting showed a half-naked man with eyes opened wide as if in a crazed state. In his hand was something that looked like a severed human arm while blood was seen dripping from his mouth. He appeared to be in a desert and faint

A low raspy laugh filled my ears adding horrific images to my paranoia. I quieted it was no use fighting the unknown. I had no choice but to hold on to Yulian’s promise; I would be okay. My breathing hitched, dampness brushed through my breast. The strong smell of paint covered my nostrils. Strokes were meticulously laid and I became a canvass of an obscure art. “She’s all done,” announced a man, I presumed the painter. He rounded me once more before patting my behind. “Yeah, she’s all good. What marvelous skin you have! A living porcelain doll!”

The middle-aged man finished his painting and signed his name in one corner: Roland de Vaal. Satisfied, he passed the painting to Chayne. "This is my message to your enemy. Show him this, and he will stop. Or else." The painting was rather macabre. It depicted a man being tormented by what looked like black hounds emerging from hell. Regarding artistry, the painting sat neatly between masterful and average. Chayne, however, held it like it was a real piece of treasure.