There were shadows around his face.
The painter had captured his energy so well, he hadn’t even asked for this much. In line with the stoic expression he always seemed to wear, the creator had also carefully indulged in Sang’s aura. Although he wouldn’t show it, he was impressed by the detail, and would only imply that with a simple nod and a thank you. The painting was of Sang’s face, painted much like an old masterpiece, one of those photos that made you feel creeped out when you walked by it, because you thought the eyes would follow you. In the black ground, there was a darkness creeping up over his shoulder, almost forming the shape of a bow, and it seemed his torso was floating in water. It reminded him of his mother. It was scary, how accurate this description was, but the ache in his throat was swallowed and consumed as he admired the piece.