2 Prologue | Chapter 0

The golden rays of the tropical rising sun filtered in through the slats of the blinds in the window of the long hospital hallway, casting strips of light and shadow on the white tiled floor. Tiny specks of dust danced with the warm sunlight, illuminating the stillness of the early morning hours.

Two patients sat in their beds, their gazes meeting across the hallway.

Anger.

Hatred.

Years of history and hurt lingered unspoken in those locked eyes before a familiar flame of anger flickered to life in one of the men. They have some past and a loathing one.

Their heart monitor began to shriek, which cut the glance of hatred towards each other and warned of the rapid spike in pulse and blood pressure. The older man clutched at his chest, his face draining of color as pain erupted, radiating down his chest and flowing all over his body like electricity. The loud beeping made the nurses come running as the other patient who inflicted the hurtful glare on the other side of the hospital room pulled his curtains and covered the scene.

These sounds of nurses rushing and flat lines are the common things you'll hear inside the hospital if there's a demand that is rooted in calamities, but at other times, hospitals have loud clicks of cameras and the pleasant sound of light music echoed through the hallway, along with claps of the people who wear suits and ties and identification cards with titles on their names.

If a person fears the noise of people catching their breath, grieving, and crying inside the hospital, then they're lucky to attend these events. But it still has a different atmosphere from what the person on the podium is saying.

"This hospital reeks of blood," he says in the most matter-of-fact manner, along with the short pause as if to emphasize it. "from the cadavers, the injured, and the newborn. Science explains how the art of the human body is intricate. The doctors would recognize such things along with the scientists and the artists who spend their lives knowing every name and part of the human body we haven't known and known. That's why this piece was born. It signifies the celebration of defeats and of celebrations humans have in life discovering and curing their bodies."

His gray hair swayed as he moved his head down, bowing to the people who held the flashes of every click of the modern cameras. They capture each of his movements, each inch of his skin, and even the small bags under his eyes that were covered with concealer, as they take candid photos of him.

They began asking him about how sinister and mysterious the painting was, describing how it had an enormous difference from the one he produced in his old works that made him popular. He's one of the artists who has wild and bright pink skies and hot blue ground colors in his works. And now, it has changed into a pitch-black room where nurses and doctors are dragging patients around like they were in a torture chamber with darker colors. Not that a change of art style is a common thing, and not that it isn't a common thing to just use dark shades of color. Yet this mangaka was being questioned about the change of his tastes; even the great Da Vinci and Juan Luna weren't that questioned. How unfair! His thoughts muttered inside his head as the end of the line of his lips slightly tilted in dismay and exasperation.

"What is your opinion about the art contest that will be held worldwide? It's the first time that it'll happen!" In reality, it already happened before.

"Are you really part of the judges?" The mangaka just smiled at them.

"Let's call it a wrap for now," the mangaka's manager intervened, her mouth forcefully pulling on her face into a smile, as the artist was escorted back to the separate hospital museum, which was in partnership with the hospital.

"You're not going to answer those questions, Toshio," his manager scolded him in English, her eyes frowning with frustration as she spoke in English to ensure their conversation remained private from any potential eavesdroppers among passing interviewers and paparazzi.

"Code-switching, huh?" Toshio remarked, noting the change in language from Japanese to English. His manager simply rolled her eyes and continued lecturing him about interviews, emphasizing the importance of staying on message with her "fancy" English that anyone cannot understand if they know every deep synonym of every simple word people use today. Although he stood a foot taller than his manager, she never hesitated to make her voice heard, speaking her mind with a resounding boldness that echoed throughout the room. Despite the height difference between them, she remained steadfast in her fearlessness, unafraid to express her opinions with a commanding voice that left an impression on everyone present. He often wonders if this is the reason he remains in this industry of books and animation.

"We're supposed to be lifting their spirits with your art, not making them more depressed, even though you're painting these things in a rush. You know it'll be displayed here, and the payment will be for charity. At least just watch your words." She breathes deeply, struggling to find the right words.

"They won't be able to look at your painting in a good light, Toshio." Her voice cracks at the end, and she tries to control herself again. Her expression changes to one that is less angry as she sees tears well up in her eyes. "You're a national artist; remember that, Tosh. You even have duties to fulfil and events that you should be at, like the art contest in Paris."

"I know Manager Amagai." The mangaka rubs the back of his neck and breathes uncomfortably as this issue is brought up again. He always hated this conversation, yet he always found himself wrapped up in this issue, and he couldn't deny the truth in her words.

"As an artist, Toshio, you have a unique perspective and voice that can bring light to even the darkest of subjects. I don't want to waste any potential on you. You have tons of it in you, just waiting to be unlocked." For some reason, Toshio constantly experiences a pit filling inside of him as a result of Amagai's compliments. That's why he just nods and looks at his manager, who is scolding him as if their height difference is disregarded. But she really means it. He could tell. She's talking like a mother talking to her son when he comes home late from school.

"Ama, please, enough about me. You talk about me too much!" Toshio shook his head and stared at a painting he had done in the hospital's museum. Toshio gazed at one of his paintings showcased at the hospital museum—a surreal Dada masterpiece meant to be comprehended solely by those with a similar sense of humor. "I promised you to see your future money maker. I told you that," he said, glancing at his phone as a reply popped up in his notification. "He gave some good ideas

"Toshio, we can't afford that time," Amagai said in an exhausted tone.

"I'm pretty sure we can. I mean, he's just here. I'm pretty sure you can see him a little earlier than I think you'll like. He's an interesting one! Alessio is a fascinating individual!" Toshio continued, looking away from his phone. Toshio looks down at his manager, who seems overwhelmed by the tiring situation, and collapses on her knees as she breathes out an exasperated sigh.

"Ma? Hey Amagai! Jeez! Are you already stressed because of me? Come on! I still need to do a background study for my work with the help of Alessio!"i