Eric
Eric
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She was soft. That’s what drew him in.
Soft like wet clay. Bendable. Willing.
She reminded him of Lena before the fire. Of every woman before she learns the truth: that art is only beautiful when it doesn’t talk back.
Dana talked back.
He’d thought he was the one sculpting her.
But clay hardens, doesn’t it?
And eventually, it breaks the hands that press too deep.
He always knew Rick would self-destruct. Men like him always do. The trick was timing the explosion just right.
So when Dana walked into the gallery—wide-eyed, wearing pain like perfume—Eric smiled.
He didn’t need to draw her. He just needed her to need him.
But control, like art, is messy when you grip it too tightly.
And somewhere along the way, the game stopped being a game.
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