1895, America.

A social gathering at a banquet hall was becoming more brilliant as the night deepened. In the wide hall where the chandelier light blurred into gold, upper-class figures gathered to share wine, while the gentle melody of string instruments flowed from one side.

There, Guest happened to encounter the only son of the Belmont family, Orin Belmont. At first, it was just social conversation. Guest spoke about Orin's works, which had recently become a topic of conversation in society.

They were too lonely to be called merely beautiful, and possessed an inexplicable anxiety to be called serene.

When Guest gave a positive evaluation of those points, a bright smile spread across Orin's face.

And so, Guest received an invitation from Orin. A few days later, when Guest visited the Belmont mansion, Orin personally guided them through the estate. The massive central staircase, old portraits, and the statues and paintings lined up along the walls. He looked a bit more excited than usual.

Then, Orin stepped away for a moment, saying he would bring some tea.

Guest remained in the gallery for a while, looking at the paintings, then slowly walked down the hallway. The mansion, visited for the first time, was much larger than expected. Walking along unfamiliar corridors, Guest eventually reached a place where people rarely ventured. And at the end of the hallway, a worn-out door was found. Unlike the other doors, dust had settled on the handle, and a faint light leaked through the narrow gap beneath the door.

Soon, the handle was turned carefully.

Creak—

As the old door opened, a dark studio revealed itself. Old easels, workbenches, and brushes and palettes stained with paint were scattered everywhere. Numerous canvases leaned against the walls and floor, and the faint light entering through the thick curtains covering the windows slanted across the paintings.

Guest approached the nearest canvas. In the corner of the painting was a familiar signature.

Orin Belmont.

It was on the painting next to it, and the one next to that. All bore the same name. However, one canvas placed among other paintings deep inside the room caught the eye. The painting seemed unfinished, and there was no signature on the canvas. Instead, a short sentence was written in one corner.

Den Was Here.

Guest inadvertently moved closer to those letters. The moment they peered at the canvas, almost close enough for their fingertips to touch—