I pushed aside the plastic, revealing a steel door, slightly ajar. Beyond it, concrete steps descended into darkness. The moth's glow created a small sphere of light around me, just enough to navigate the first few steps. My hand found a light switch on the wall, illuminating a staircase that looked much older than the renovated house above. The stone walls glistened slightly with moisture, the air cooler and carrying scents both clinical and organic.
The stairs ended at another door, this one modern steel with a sophisticated locking mechanism. It stood partially open, lightspilling from whatever lay beyond. My instinct screamed to turn back, wake Daddy, ask permission. But the ache in my amputated finger intensified, urging me forward into forbidden territory.
I opened the door.
The room beyond was a temple of transformation disguised as a laboratory with polished concrete floors and stainless steel tables. One wall housed glass-fronted refrigeration units, their contents obscured by frosted surfaces. Another displayed neatly arranged tools on a pegboard, some familiar from the workshop where I'd sacrificed my finger, others more surgical in nature.
But it was what occupied the center of the room that stopped my breath. Three bodies, nude and perfectly preserved, positioned in various states of artistic transformation. They stood on platforms of brushed steel, lit by recessed lighting.
The first, a woman perhaps in her thirties, had been partially dissected, her chest cavity opened to reveal organs replaced by glass structures that caught the light. Her face remained untouched, peaceful in repose, almost smiling.
The second, an older man, had been modified more extensively. Sections of his skin had been removed and replaced with canvas stretched across his exposed muscles. Pigments had been applied directly to these surfaces, creating a living painting that wrapped around his form. His hands had been positioned as if in prayer, each finger tipped with small metal implements that resembled paintbrushes.
The third subject, barely begun, appeared to be a young man. His body remained largely intact, only his back opened to expose the vertebrae, each one carefully gilded with metal that caught the light. His transformation seemed recently started, perhaps the next piece in Ezra's artistic journey.
Revulsion never came. Instead, something else flooded my system: recognition. The shadow inside me stretched towardthese creations, finding in them a terrible beauty that resonated with my deepest nature.
I clutched my moth tighter to my chest, its glow intensifying with my racing heart. The amputation site on my finger burned. My small sacrifice seemed almost trivial compared to what lay before me. Yet it connected me to these transformed bodies, a first step on a path that led inexorably here.
"Beautiful, aren't they?"
Ezra's voice behind me didn't startle me as it should have. Perhaps some part of me had expected him, had known this discovery was not an accident, but an orchestrated revelation.
"Yes," I answered honestly, turning to face him.
He stood shirtless at the bottom of the stairs. Despite the horror surrounding us, my body responded to his presence with a warmth that embarrassed me. No anger distorted his features, only calm assessment and something that looked remarkably like pride.
"You found this place sooner than I expected," he said, moving toward me. His lips curved in a slight smile that never quite reached his eyes. "Though perhaps not entirely without... guidance."
Of course. The unlocked doors. The light left on. Not carelessness but calculation. He had wanted me to discover this place, had created a path for me to follow while maintaining the illusion of forbidden discovery.
"What are they?" I asked, though I already knew the answer.
"Art in its purest form," he replied, coming to stand beside me. "The transformation of the mundane into the transcendent."
"You don’t just kill the ones who ask you for it, do you?" My moth's glow dimmed slightly against my chest, as if absorbing my realization.
"I elevate them," he corrected gently. "From temporary creatures of flesh to eternal works of art. They achieve through my vision what they never could in life: transcendence."
His hand touched my shoulder, fingers traveling down to the stump of my amputated finger. "Does this disturb you, Micah?"
The answer was complicated. Yes, it unnerved me, but not with moral outrage or righteous revulsion. It unnerved me like scripture had unnerved me as a child, like my own darkest thoughts unnerved me.
"No, Daddy," I admitted finally.
His lips twitched as if he were resisting a smile. "You continue to exceed my expectations." His hand moved from my finger to my face, thumb stroking my cheek tenderly. "The others couldn’t accept this reality."
Something dark and feral twisted in my chest. I gritted my teeth, resisting the urge to let out a feline hiss. "What others?"
"Students. Protégés. But none quite like you."
He guided me closer to the third figure, the young man whose transformation had just begun. "This will inspire my final piece for the exhibition. A study in potential energy, the moment before complete metamorphosis."
"You mean you'll create a painting based on... this?" I gestured toward the body.
"Of course," Ezra smiled indulgently. "What you see here is the raw material, the inspiration. The public sees only the finished artwork—oils, pigments, and special media on canvas—never understanding the true source of its power. They appreciate the echo without ever hearing the original sound."
I studied the man’s face. He looked…serene. "How do you choose them?"
