Beyond the Canvas

"We all know the story of Dorian Gray and his dark ending... or do we?"

The room, bathed in cold, flickering light, felt suffocating, like the air itself was thick with a thousand unspoken truths. Shadows clung to the walls, stretching unnaturally, alive in ways they shouldn’t be. Something stirred in the dark corners, a presence—waiting.

Dorian Gray. A name synonymous with vanity, with beauty untouched by time, untouched by sin. But the portrait... the one he hid away in shame. It didn’t just reflect his soul, it consumed it. And that’s where the story ends, right? Dorian stabs the painting and dies, lost to his own darkness.

But what if we’re wrong? What if, when Dorian plunged the knife into that painted canvas, he didn’t destroy it? What if he was the one who was destroyed?

The room is cold, the kind of cold that wraps around you and settles into your bones. It presses against your skin, a constant reminder that something is terribly wrong. The shadows are alive here, stretching across the walls, twisting in ways that shouldn’t be possible. The faintest light flickers above, but even that seems hesitant, as if unsure whether it should remain.

His name is Dorian Gray—a name whispered on the lips of those who speak of beauty untouched by time, of youth that doesn’t decay. It’s a name that carries weight, a curse and a blessing, one that belongs to someone who has never faced the consequences of his desires. Until now.

He stumbles, feeling the weight of something invisible pressing down on him. The air thickens, suffocating his lungs. He tries to reach for the door, but his hands meet only cold stone, the walls now solid, unyielding.

Then a figure steps out of the shadows. Its Basil. But he’s not the man Dorian remembers. The eyes that once burned with inspiration are now empty, blackened pits. The smile—the one that once had the power to create masterpieces—now twists into a grotesque mockery of itself. His presence fills the room, as though he is part of the very fabric of this place, and his silence is more oppressive than any words could be.

There’s no need for an introduction. He no longer matters. Only the essence remains—the essence of what Dorian has become, of what the Artist has shaped him into. His gaze fixes on Dorian. It’s not hatred, not anymore. It’s indifference, pure and unfeeling.

"You think it ends with the knife?" the Artist’s voice rumbles, a whisper that vibrates through the air.

Dorian turns away, eyes darting to the others—Sybil, her hollowed-out face, her skin stretched too thin, her eyes voids where emotions once lived. She doesn’t speak either. There’s no need for words between them. Her presence is a wound that never heals, the reminder of a broken love, of a dream crushed by his selfish hands. Her figure moves, a shadow, the kind that lingers in places you can’t quite escape.

“You killed me,” her voice finally breaks through, but it’s not a cry. It’s simply a statement—cold, resigned. There’s no anger, just an acknowledgment of the fact.

James emerges from the darkness, his tall figure impossibly large, stretching unnaturally toward Dorian. His face is twisted, almost monstrous in its proportions, the sharp lines of his features harsh in the dim light. There’s no recognition in his eyes—only something that resembles fury.

"You thought you could run?" His voice, too, is not a question. He doesn't expect an answer. It’s a verdict, as if Dorian’s fate was sealed the moment he took the first step into this place.

A low rumbling fills the air as Dorian’s hand clutches the blade—the one he once hoped would end it all. He raises it, but the air around him shifts, warps, the very room itself bending and distorting.

The portrait is there, still hanging in the dark, but it’s wrong. It’s no longer a reflection of Dorian’s youthful face. Instead, it’s a grotesque version of him, a twisted mockery of his beauty. The skin is flayed, the eyes vacant and hollow, the smile a cruel, jagged thing. It’s not a painting anymore; it’s a living thing, a curse that has taken form.

Dorian stumbles back, gasping for air, his hand shaking. "No…" The word feels foreign on his tongue, a cry for help he knows will never come.

"You thought you could escape us," a voice echoes from the portrait itself, twisting with malice. “But you’re trapped here, Dorian. Just like the rest of us.”

The shadows in the room move again, like living creatures, closing in on him. The Artist, the Actor, the Brother—they’re not just memories now. They are part of this place, part of the darkness that clings to him. They surround him, and he can feel their eyes on him, the weight of their silent judgment pressing in on him.

"You thought you could outrun time," the Actor’s voice comes again, quieter this time, almost too soft to hear. "But now, you’ll never leave. You’ll never be free of us."

The room begins to pulse, the walls stretching, bending as though the very space itself is alive. Dorian’s heart pounds in his chest. The knife shakes in his hand, slipping from his fingers, falling to the floor with a sound like a heartbeat in the quiet.

He tries to move, to run, but his legs betray him. The shadows close in around him, and the air feels thicker, heavier with every passing second.

"Don’t you understand?" the Brother growls, his voice rising, sharp and cruel. "You were never meant to escape."

The floor beneath Dorian shifts. The shadows coil around him, twisting into shapes he cannot comprehend. He reaches out, his hands scrambling for something—anything—to hold onto. But there’s nothing.

And then, just as it feels as though the darkness will consume him completely, a voice, quiet but commanding, calls out to him from the depths of the portrait. Sybil. Her form flickers in the shadows, barely a shape against the swirling chaos.

"You thought you could outrun yourself," she whispers, a bitter laugh slipping through her words. "But you can’t. Not here."

Dorian’s body trembles, his mind unraveling as he falls forward, caught between reality and nightmare. The portrait seems to swallow him whole, the darkness closing in from all sides.

He reaches for the edges of the painting, but his fingers sink into the canvas, into the flesh that’s no longer flesh. He can’t escape. He can’t—

The walls are no longer walls, the floor no longer solid. He’s drowning in this place, in this twisted version of reality, his body contorting and breaking under the weight of his sins. The faces—the Artist, the Actor, the Brother, —hover around him, watching, waiting.

"You can never leave this place, Dorian," the Artist says again, his voice cold as ice. "Not ever."

And with that, the room fades into nothing. The darkness swallows him whole.

It’s quiet now. So quiet.

There’s a stillness in the air, an absence of all things that should exist.

And somewhere, in the depths of this place—this portrait—Dorian Gray will remain.

Forever.