You draw very well

Geralt hurried back to the house he shared with the black-robed mage at six in the evening. It was a modest, affordable place, yet spacious enough for two bachelors to have their own room.

After careful consideration and calculation—mostly done by He Shenyan—Geralt concluded that if they were to stay in Novigrad for a few months until spring, renting a house was better than staying in an inn.

As everyone knows, innkeepers are profiteers who try every trick in the book to swindle your coin.

Although Geralt knew He Shenyan was likely wealthy and indifferent to money, he still insisted on splitting the rent. The black-robed mage agreed with a smile. When they first found the house, the landlady hadn't wanted to rent to a "mutant killer who spends his days slaughtering drowners in the sewers"—you could make that description ten times worse, and believe me, that old woman had a much sharper tongue.

But when the black-robed mage appeared, her attitude shifted instantly, a change so drastic that Geralt had grumbled about it to himself for a long time.

Back to the point: Geralt pushed open the door and, unsurprisingly, saw He Shenyan curled up on the comfortable green sofa, reading. Several stacks of books were already piled beside him. The Witcher's keen eyesight caught the title: History of Witchers. He asked calmly, "What are you reading?"

"About your history." He Shenyan revealed part of his face from behind the book, his eyes still fixed on the pages rather than the Witcher. Geralt heard him say, "I don't think learning about you solely through your own experiences is enough, especially since you've spent the entire winter killing drowners. Do you know what the sewer guard calls you? 'Drowner Slayer'. Ha, he really has a sense of humor."

The Witcher placed his sword on the table to the right of the entrance and retorted irritably, "Yeah, that idiot shouts that damn title every time he sees me. I don't know where he even came up with it. It's maddening. And don't blame me for that; it's not my fault Novigrad only has drowners to kill."

"Mm-hmm."

"..."

Geralt walked straight to the kitchen to start preparing something to eat. He hadn't had a proper meal in the house for a long time. Usually, out in the wild, he just ate cold, hard jerky, or at best, boiled it in a pot to make it less of a chore to chew. Geralt had more than once suspected that if he weren't a Witcher, that jerky would have shattered his teeth.

As he chopped vegetables, he raised his voice, whether intentionally or not, and said, "Ahem, you know, a young man drew a portrait of me when I passed through Hierarch Square today."

"Mm-hmm."

"He was very talented."

"Mm-hmm."

"And it wasn't finished yet. He said he wanted to paint it in an oil style and told me to come by his house in a week to see it."

"Mm-hmm."

Geralt wanted to curse at that moment, but he held back. The black-robed mage's amused voice drifted from the living room: "If you can't hold it in, don't, Geralt. I can take a joke."

Yes, of course you can.

Geralt remembered a few days ago when he came home drunk and accidentally vomited on some of the mage's books. When he woke up the next morning, he found himself naked and dumped on the balcony, with the woman across the street staring at him intently. Later, when they crossed paths, she even patted Geralt on the backside. The thought sent a chill down his spine.

The Witcher decided to let the matter drop.

A week later, on a clear morning, Geralt put on a decent outfit—at least, that's what the tailor had claimed. Geralt wasn't picky about clothes as long as they weren't tight, but in the mirror, the blue and white robe looked quite good, so he bought it.

Following the address the young man had given him, he arrived at the house. It was a secluded villa in the upper district—secluded in location, but the house itself was quite grand. The beautiful three-story wooden villa was impressive; Geralt took a moment to confirm that the windows were made of stained glass. There was even a small fountain in front with a statue of a man he didn't recognize. The Witcher guessed he must have been some famous artist.

The house also had a garden in the back, where he could see grapevines and many rare flowers. Geralt realized that even if the young man was a fool, he was a very wealthy one.

He walked to the door and knocked. The Witcher waited patiently for five minutes, but no one answered.

He knocked again, this time with more force. His fingers rapped against the heavy oak door with a sharp thud-thud-thud. He was certain that even if the guy were sleeping, he would have heard it, but after another five minutes, still no one came.

The Witcher suddenly felt something was wrong. A familiar scent began to permeate his nose. Earlier, due to the fragrance of the flowers and the overly complex odors of the area, he hadn't identified it, but now, he smelled it.

Clear and unforgettable—blood.

The Witcher kicked the door open and saw the young man, who had been full of life a week ago, lying on his back in the living room, surrounded by scattered sketches. His entire chest and abdomen had been sliced open, his organs removed and placed to the side. Blood continued to spread, flowing down until it reached the doorway where he stood.

Geralt felt a lump in his throat. His unique eyes didn't just allow him to see in the dark; they could also perceive traces invisible to ordinary people.

Drag marks.

He quickly shifted into his professional state. Cronin hadn't been killed here; a long drag mark stretched from an inner room all the way to the living room. The Witcher entered the villa slowly, his footsteps as soft as a cat's, making no sound on the hardwood floor. He grabbed a vase to use as a weapon, stepped over Cronin and his entrails, and reached the room.

It was hard to describe the sight of Geralt standing in the room, clutching the vase. He kept his head bowed as the morning sun shone through the open glass window, the breeze stirring his hair. In the center of the room stood a finished oil painting.

The Witcher stood in the middle of the scene, expressionless, holding a sharp sword. Another blade was embedded in the ground not far away, and behind him, a terrified woman clung to him tightly. In the painting, the Witcher shielded her with one hand while pointing his sword at a massive, dark figure.

"You painted it very well, friend."

Geralt's voice echoed in the room.