One day ago...
4 PM
Hale's eyes were just gazing at the printed picture of himself. Even if his physical body is alive, his social presence just totally dies.
The glass of the portrait is getting blurred until it becomes frictionless because of his unending teardrops.
"I know that someday I can rise. Just like a drop of tears, after they fall on my face, they will just absorb my skin and then vanish."
He looked at his wet portrait. "But I thought my tears would just absorb into the glass, why can my fingers still feel them?"
Someone whispered in his mind. The origin is unknown, the voice just appeared unintentionally on his head.
"Good observation, Hale."
He became alert for not less than a second. When he checked the sides of his room, he saw nothing but only himself facing his old picture inside the glass. He sighed then went back to overacting and having a drama fever.
"Look again at the portrait you are holding."
It's the voice-over again. At first, he was creeped out as this was unexpected to happen. He prayed that no one would interrupt his time to cry on his death. However, he will give this a shot this time.
He followed what the unknown told him. As he stared at the photo longer, his old self just flashed on his head. He eventually closed his eyes to clearly reminisce about the past.
While having an unplanned meditation on his bed, his mouth is just starting to utter words that are lively forming a poem.
"Sitting cross-legged, breathing in then out
While the eyes are closed, the body's so awake
Sensing the breeze of the wind, drawing pictures on the head
A voice echoing in my ears, telling me what must be achieved.
Warp clocks, hands roll backward
Sceneries are black and white, dreamy appearance
Reminiscing the old self, tears are falling
Unknown vibrations linger on the head.
Pains, heartbreaks, withdrawal, foolishness
Guilts, unfaithfulness, body is weakening
Head is shaking, feeling possessed
Someone said, "Don't drown what you've witnessed."
Peach fuzz stands up, skin is freezing
Tears dropping, deeply sighing
Getting back to reality then endure the strong vibration..."
The clue provided by an unknown is getting nearer to be deduced. He took a pause for a while to exit the meditation state. He is getting worried about his heavy breaths and almost freaking out at the vibrations.
"Deep breath in... deep breath out... One, two, three..." He gently opened his eyes and then looked straight at the portrait for the nth time.
"I already knew the answer... the glass won't absorb my tears because it's thick. And my old picture cannot be wet as it is protected by glass. If the paper becomes wet, it will dissolve. Therefore... T-T-There...-fore..."
He stood up and then went down from the bed with the portrait with him.
After a glance, he intentionally dropped the glass portrait. The parts scattered into broken pieces then the printed picture inside of it turned a little bit wet.
He didn't hesitate to grab the ruined photo. "I, therefore, conclude that this picture will observe the water from my eyes if the glass broke into pieces. The glass is the skeleton of my past, while this photo is my old self."
He added while becoming teary-eyed, "From now on, I bid goodbye to my old self. FROM NOW ON... THE NEW HALE WILL JUST BORN!"
Unexpectedly, the ruined photo was intensively ripped with his trembling hands. And then, sat on the makeup table and faced the mirror. He opened the mini-cabinet where all the makeup tools are located.
Rain hammered against the window, creating a melancholy symphony of metamorphosis. Cassian grabbed the cool porcelain of the sink, his knuckles white. In the mirror, a stranger peered back, reflecting society's expectations rather than his soul.
Now, the canvas would not be a blank page, but his own face. Next, he'd paint a war cry rather than a grin. He unscrewed the foundation bottle and let out a serpent's moan. He squeezed a dollop onto his palm, not beige or tan, but a stark, ethereal white. It was the hue of a fresh start, a clean slate. He brushed it across his features with a skilled touch, obscuring the old self beneath the mask.
Then came the brows. With a single, crisp stroke of his black pencil, he drew a high, pointed arch, a weapon of uniformity. It was a challenge, a dare: who could tell him this wasn't him?
He dipped the brush in a flaming scarlet and drew a broad line across his eyelids, mirroring the rage bubbling beneath. It wasn't makeup, but a battle cry. The Kohl pencil became a sculpting tool.
He extended the wing of his liner, like a defiant claw reaching for the sky. He smudged it with his finger, a black tear running down his cheek, but not one of grief. This was the ink of revolt drying on his cheek. He picked up a highlighter, its silver reflecting the wavering lamplight.
He stroked the bridge of his nose and the high points of his cheekbones, like a beacon in the tempest he'd survived. It wasn't vanity, but defiance. He wouldn't be hiding in the shadows any longer. He drew back, studying his creation.
The white canvas had transformed into a battleground, with the hues serving as war paint. The stranger in the mirror was no longer missing.
This was Cassian, reborn in rage and grace. The crimson was a flaming ember from the past that he was leaving behind. The silver, a flash of steel, foreshadowed the warrior he would become. He reached for a set of fake lashes, each feather-light strand representing a whispered secret, a shared strength with the women who had defied expectations before him.
He carefully applied them, the adhesive forming a subtle bond of camaraderie. His eyes, now framed, contained a fresh fire that would not be extinguished. Finally, some lipstick. A deep, bloody crimson, the color of triumph.
He applied it with a flourish, his lips curled in a quiet scowl. This was not a pout, but a promise. A pledge to live truly and fiercely. Cassian took a step back, the rain a soft roar outside. The reflection was no longer unfamiliar. He was risen from the ashes, a defiant phoenix painted in crimson, silver, and white.
He would not blend in; instead, he would flame. He would not be unseen; he would be seen. He would not be quiet; his war paint would shout the truth.
Though the storm persisted, Cassian was prepared. The world would tremble at his entrance; he was a masterpiece, a monument to the strength of self-creation.
"THIS IS THE FACE OF MY FIERCEST SELF! I WILL BRING YOU DOWN, HARRISON FUENTABELLA! I WILL REVENGE!"
Madam Zorraida smirked after he watched how Hale got out of metamorphosis. She has an idea to satisfy her sweetie. Her hands and wealth will be the powerful tool to grant his revengeful wish.
~~~
4 PM
The leader of the horror theater group named SINDAK just received a message from Madam Zorraida.
From: Madam Zorraida
Good day, my idol performers. It's been a long time. It's been a month since the last time I watched your stage horror performance.
I just have a favor today. Wouldn't you mind if I hired your group to stage a horror at Fuentabella Mansion?
I sent you a P2 million pesos to your bank account. I will leave it to you the method and procedure on how you will scare this arrogant CEO, Harrison Fuentabella.
Quirino experienced a dilemma right after he read the message. The prize is such a dollar win. However, he is hesitant about the favor. He is going to prank, horrifyingly, the most influential man in the world.
Although he has a hatred for that arrogant man, he is still afraid to attack him. But as a director, he will make a way that his group will not be caught in the act.
Present...
"W-What? What did you do to Harrison?" Hale is so confused yet surprised.
"I hired a theatre group that performs horror stage plays. They staged a haunted and creepy scene so that Harrison would have a heart attack. Yesterday, I saw him at the church where your family cried the fake death of yours," Madam Zorraida spilled to him the details.
Hale became speechless. He has mixed emotions right now. But one thing is for sure, he is evilly happy about Madam Zorraida's initiative. However, he still has a question that shakes his mind. He was supposed to open this to his new guardian, but he didn't want to kill the joy of success.
"May I watch the finished product? I mean, the video."
Madam Zorraida confidently turned on the laptop. After typing the password, the thumbnail of the video clips she was watching earlier showed on the screen.
Hale put his eyes' attention on the screen. He witnessed the video from the gripping start-up to the winning finale.
"What now, Harrison!" he evilly burst into laughter. "It was just the fake ghost that attacked you. We'll see if you can bring me down once our paths cross again."
"I can't wait for the future when I can crush you like ice. Suit yourself now or else, you cannot outsmart me. HAHA... HAHA... HAHA-HAHAHA! "