It happened late one night, years ago.
Rey hadn't eaten. He hadn't slept. He barely remembered what day it was.
All he knew was that he had to finish the painting.
He had worked on it for weeks without pause — no breaks, no visitors, barely any light. Just the quiet hum of his studio and the growing chaos inside his mind.
The painting wasn't bad.
It was beautiful.
But it terrified him.
There was a figure in the center of it — faceless, walking through a wind-swept field, colors burning around it like fire. It wasn't supposed to be Rey. But the more he stared, the more he saw himself. Every fear. Every grief. Every piece of himself he tried to hide.
It was like the painting knew too much.
He had put too much of himself into it.
Not just talent. Not just effort.
But everything. His exhaustion. His heartbreak. His anger. The parts of him he didn't even talk about out loud.
It had consumed him. And still, it demanded more.
That night, Rey stood in front of it for a long time, heart racing. It felt like the painting was watching him now — judging him, pulling him in again.
He stepped back.
He reached for the turpentine.
His hands moved on their own. Splash. The liquid soaked into the canvas, making the colors bleed.
He lit a match.
Just one.
Then dropped it.
The flames caught fast.
It didn't scream. It just burned.
Rey stood there and watched it go — all of it. The face he never painted. The truth he never said out loud. The version of himself that nearly swallowed him whole.
When the fire died, the painting was gone.
And so was something else — that part of him that thought he'd never stop.
He didn't pick up a paintbrush again for a very long time.