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墨書 Inktalez
Picking up the suitcase that had long been packed, I took one last glance at this luxurious cage that had imprisoned me for ten years.
Every piece of furniture, every decoration, bore the imprint of Lu Chen Zhou's will and the shadow of Su Qing.
Yet there was no trace of Lin Yan.
I walked to the entrance.
From my bag, I took out the YSL lipstick I had just used and gently placed it on the gleaming marble countertop.
1966.
Su Qing's signature red.
I'll leave it for her.
Taking a deep breath, I pulled open the heavy door.
In that fleeting moment as I turned, the edge of the concealer patch on my left eye seemed to catch on the metal strip of the door frame.
A slight sting.
I didn't look back; I walked straight into the elevator.
It wasn't until the elevator doors slowly closed, cutting off that resplendent world, that I raised my hand to touch the corner of my eye.
My fingertips found nothing.
That patch, which had accompanied me for ten years, had fallen off.
It lay on the door frame like a stark, torn piece of skin.
The moving truck was parked downstairs.
Workers were carefully loading my art supplies and several boxes onto the vehicle.
One box was not sealed properly, revealing half of an unfinished oil painting inside.
On the canvas was the outline of a woman's profile.
It was my face.
The right side of my face was vibrant and real, reflecting my original skin tone, albeit with a sickly pallor.
On the left side, where a scar marred the corner of my eye, the paint had been brutally scraped away, revealing the raw, rough base of the canvas beneath.
The knife marks were sharp and deep.
It was as if they sought to completely tear apart that false perfection.
Only the grotesque outline of the scar remained.
That was me, attempting for the first time to paint myself.
The true me.
The sound of the moving truck's engine gradually faded away, stirring a few fallen leaves at the street corner.
I stood under the colonnade of the municipal art museum, the autumn breeze carrying a unique scent of paint and turpentine that filled my nostrils.
Here, there was no chill of cedar, no pervasive sense of surveillance.
Only lofty spaces, a solemn atmosphere, and the anxiety of facing the unknown.
The skin at the corner of my left eye was exposed to the air, slightly itching—a long-forgotten reminder.
A reminder that "Lin Yan" had returned.
Bearing a scar and a decade of stolen life.
The exhibition had already begun.
There were not many people in the gallery, but they were all well-dressed, speaking in hushed tones. The air flowed with an air of restraint and scrutiny unique to art appreciation.
My gaze swept over the crowd and landed precisely on the most striking painting in the center of the gallery.
"Shadow Mr. Lu."
On the canvas stood a man in an expensive suit, his back turned to the audience. In his embrace was the silhouette of a woman dressed in a Chanel outfit.
The woman's flaxen curls and slender waist were almost a perfect replica of Su Qing.
But only I know that it was me, drawn stroke by stroke in front of the mirror.
The shadow of "Su Qing," meticulously crafted by Lu Chen Zhou.
The crowd gathered most around that painting.
I could hear some suppressed gasps and whispers.
"This brushwork is delicate yet carries an indescribable sense of oppression..."
"Is it a portrait of someone? The president of Lu Group, Lu Chen Zhou?"
"That woman... is she the rumored Miss Su Qing? But it doesn't quite feel like her..."
"Look at those suit buttons; is there a special arrangement?"
A keen-eyed critic leaned closer to the canvas, pointing at the man's suit lapel.
"It's letters! L... Y..."
"LY? What does that stand for? Lu Yao? No, that can't be... Could it be..."
A small stir erupted in the crowd, speculation spreading like vines.
"Mr. Lu's secret lover?"
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