For some unexplainable reason, they were back there, living that first day. The environment around them echoed with chatter and other noises typical of a well-lived space, and it seemed to spring alive with speckles of fiery crimson. Sylvester was at a place made for passion of both knowledge and dreams, otherwise known as a university. Standing there, soaking in it, they felt a nervous fluttering in their chest alike the wings of a bird hesitating to take flight. As they stopped in front of the Art Nouveau-style building, with sleep-deprived students passing by their side, they knew that was the first step to finally realize their dream. Every decision they had made would be validated, and every sacrifice -- this would finally make them worthy.

Foster cleared his throat from his place beside them, pulling Sylvester's attention to him. Their little brother smiled cheekily at them, pushing their shoulder with his.

"So... Are you ready?"

Sylvester grinned at him, but still felt their forehead crease in worry. "I need to be."

"Such seriousness is unlike you," Foster chuckled while shaking his head. He looked at the University and then back at the older Steele, his façade loosing some of the amusement as his eyes became shadowed. "Sy, you'll be fine."

"Thanks, Foz," some of the worry vanished away from the artist's shoulders at Foster's encouragement. "Don't be a stranger, okay?"

"You'll be sick of me," Foster promised.

Kind words are hard to come by, but they carry a strength in them. Hearing that made impossible to hold into any semblance of negativity any longer, and though they were not a cure-it-all, the companionship they showed helped Sylvester breathe a little bit easier.

The artist took a deep breath and with the exhale straigthened their shoulders, pushed a stray strand of dark hair behind their ear, and decided to get going.

"Okay."

They turned back to Foster, who still smiled in support. Dimples formed in his cheeks, and his brown hair framed them in a way that was impossible not to feel endeared to. Foster may had been an adult now; but Sylvester was old enough to remember the days when the both of them used to run around the house with laughter following them. Not for the first time, they were glad to have him, to have such a strong relationship that time and dreams and distance could not tear apart. They said nothing of the sort to him, though. There was no need. Foster probably knew them enough to know their feelings by now.

Sylvester did smile, though, and clasped his shoulder gently in gratitute.

"Okay," they repeated. "I need to go now."

"Cheers!" Foster encouraged, holding out his fist. Sylvester bumped it with their own. "I'll be going too, then. I'll see you on Kaonor night, Sy!"

And then he waved without a care in the world, and slowly disappeared down the street. Feeling emboldened again, Sylvester started their way back into the building. They hadn't taken even two steps when they felt something hurl into their side, pushing them heavily into the hard floor.

"Ouch," the artist groaned as they felt the burden of the fall in their left wrist.

They looked around, but discovered it was a person that had crashed into them. They were both now spread in the floor, and Sylvester could see the light of the sun shine brightly around the other's honey blond hair, creating almost a halo. The person winced in pain, and Sylvester noticed their attire was well put together, and well kept. The person clearly had an interest in clothes, and probably was no stranger to money.

"Shit!" The stranger bit out, rubbing their knee. Sylvester could see a big tear in the fabric, and a coppery-red fluid peaking through. Blood.

They looked up, and suddenly, all they could see was blue as they met the stranger's eyes. There was something unusual about them; however, it was not the color itself. An artist knows color. Knows the way it can cause people to cry or laugh, the effect of mixing two or more together to create an armonious masterpiece, or to scare people off as easily as if it were puke on the sidewalk. That shade of blue on their eyes was pretty common. What was not was the intensity shining through it. It was such that Sylvester had only seen it on one other pair of eyes before.

"Sorry!" The person apologized, their tone deep and precise like a surgeons. "I wasn't paying attention!"

"Don't worry about it!" Sylvester grinned.

They stood up, brushing both imaginary and real dirt from their clothes.

"I'm Kay," The other said, reaching out a hand for a shake. "Kay Watson."

Sylvester instantly found them amusing: from the traces of formality in their clothes to the specks of it shinning in their voice. They found they didn't mind as much.

"Sylvester Steele," they introduced themselves.

"Well," Kay said. "It's enchanting to meet you, Sylvester."

"Enchanting," Sylvester repeated cheekily. Oh, the fun they would have with this person's pompous ass!

The look Kay gave him was equally as unamused, almost as if they could hear Sylvester's thoughts as they circled around their head. As if they knew, somehow, how it would all end, as if they felt Sylvester finally start to feel like themselves at long last. However, the more they looked, the more the other's face began to look less like that of a polished gentleman. Kay's face lost all color first, and then, started to slide down like wax from a candle, until not anything even resembling a scream would be able to come out their lips. Until all Sylvester could see were burns etched into muscle and bones.

And that was the moment that Sylvester finally woke up.

It was still dark outside the studio, and the light from the moon shadowed the window frames on the floor. The walls around them, from which once hung a multitude of canvases, now judged empty and ugly in white and darkened by the night. The room was eerie in its quiet as a place could only be during the nighttime. Sylvester sat up in the couch, gingerly rubbing their face with calloused hands. Oh, if only they could forget!

Nothing worthwile had come out of that meeting, so many years ago. Sylvester had had everything, for a moment, and then nothing. Kay, the son-of-a-bitch. Still lethargic from sleep, it was easier to fall back into the all-encompasing feeling that they often cherished at the thought of their old friend. There was a hurt there that still ached ruby red. A pulsing cut that emanated a glow that spurred their heart into beating twice as fast. People like to say that anger is a hazy mind, a senseless feeling both spontaneous and ephemeral, a single moment where they could not account for their actions. But for Sylvester, anger burned steady, a slow fire turning trees into embers.

"You're thinking of him again."

The sound was loud inside the studio if only for the stillness of the night, and Sylvester gasped as they looked for its origin. The air seemed to heat, and it was a parallel to their own emotions. Next to the couch stood a figure shining red: a person with unkept long scarlet hair that flowed like flames; however, Sylvester was more frightened as they looked into the figure's eyes. There were no pupils nor calm to be found. Instead, glowing pools of lava glared at them. The artist tried to speak, but found they couldn't. The figure smiled widely, almost as if they knew of Sylvester's dilemma. The smile was not kind, it was something that could only be found in the darkest depths of a nightmare: crooked, long and unnatural.

The presence let out a roar and its shine grew brighter, like a fire with unlimited fuel. As they did, the windows shattered into pieces, and the walls peeled down as if the paint over them was being burnt down. Sylvester covered their head with their arms, and by the time they looked up again, the figure was gone.

This time, the truth was unavoidable. It was carved into every surface of the trashed studio: the ghost was real.