Chapter 1438 - 00000

No.1

The coffee was exactly one hundred and sixty degrees, a temperature Percival Stone demanded with the precision of a nuclear physicist. Zinnia Haze stood before his obsidian desk, her knuckles white as she gripped the paper cup. Rain lashed against the floor-to-ceiling windows of the forty-fourth floor, turning the Manhattan skyline into a blurred watercolor of gray and neon. Percival didn’t look up. He was staring at a tablet, his brow furrowed in a permanent v-shape of irritation. His jawline was sharp enough to cut glass, and his tailored suit looked like it had been molded onto him by a high-end sculptor.

"This is the third time this week, Zinnia," he muttered, finally glancing up. His eyes were the color of cold flint, cutting through the sterile office air. "The mural on the north exterior wall. It appeared again overnight. Blue wings, sprawling across the limestone. It is architectural vandalism, and it is costing me a fortune in chemical cleaning agents."

Zinnia forced her expression into one of professional neutrality, though her heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird. "I’m sorry to hear that, Mr. Stone. Perhaps the city’s art scene is just feeling particularly expressive today."

Percival stood, his movements fluid and predatory. He walked to the window, staring down at the spot where, just six hours ago, Zinnia had been suspended on a rickety scaffold with a canister of spray paint in her hand. The scent of aerosol still lingered in the pores of her skin, hidden beneath a layer of expensive vanilla perfume she wore to mask the evidence. "Expression is one thing. Destruction of private property is another. Whoever this person is, they have an obsession with defying me. They paint over my logos, they replace my slogans with vibrant, chaotic nonsense, and they refuse to stop."

Zinnia took a step back, her heels clicking softly on the polished marble floor. "Maybe they think your building is too dull, sir. Maybe they’re trying to give it a personality."

Percival turned, his gaze narrowing. He stepped into her personal space, stopping just far enough away that they didn't touch, but close enough that the heat radiating from him was palpable. "I don’t pay for personality. I pay for order. I pay for excellence. This artist is an amateur, a blight on the skyline. If I find them, I will ensure they never hold a can of paint again."

He took the coffee from her, his fingers hovering inches from hers before he pulled the cup away. The contact was purely transactional, yet the air between them crackled with an intensity that made Zinnia’s skin prickle. She hurried out of the office, her pulse racing, the adrenaline of the double life finally catching up to her.

By noon, Zinnia was buried in spreadsheets, her eyes straining against the blue light of her monitor. The office was a hive of corporate anxiety. Every executive lived in fear of Percival’s moods, which shifted like the tides based on the latest report regarding the mural. Zinnia was the quiet intern, the one who took notes, fetched documents, and stayed invisible. She was perfect at it. She knew the rhythm of the office, the way the silence deepened whenever Percival stepped out of his corner suite, and the way the air grew thin when he was angry.

She spent her lunch break sketching in a small, battered notebook hidden beneath a stack of quarterly projections. The sketches were rough, kinetic, and vibrant—the opposite of the structured, rigid life she led inside the Stone Tower. She wasn't just an artist; she was an observer of the chaos she helped create. Percival was a man of logic, a man who saw the world in columns and rows. She was the disruption he couldn't calculate.

"Zinnia," a voice barked, pulling her from her reverie. Percival stood at the entrance to the bullpen, his tie loosened just a fraction. He looked exhausted, the weight of the company etched into the lines around his eyes. "I need you to accompany me to the site. The restoration team is struggling to remove the pigment from the brickwork. I want to see the damage for myself."

"Of course, Mr. Stone," she replied, standing up and grabbing her tablet.

The elevator ride down was agonizing. Percival paced the small space, his reflection caught in the polished brass doors. He seemed restless, his energy vibrating against the walls. "It’s not just the paint," he said suddenly, looking at his own hands. "It’s the defiance. Someone is mocking me in my own backyard. They use colors that don't belong here, patterns that make no sense in a financial district. Why would anyone do that?"

Zinnia kept her eyes forward, focusing on the floor numbers as they ticked downward. "Art isn't always about logic, sir. Sometimes it’s about claiming space that’s been denied to you."

Percival scoffed, a short, sharp sound. "Space is earned, not claimed. This city has rules. If you break them, you pay the price."

When they emerged into the alleyway behind the building, the air was thick with the chemical smell of industrial cleaners. A crew of workers stood around a patch of wall where the cerulean wings still clung stubbornly to the gray stone. The mural was beautiful, glowing even in the overcast afternoon light. It was a chaotic explosion of flight, of freedom, of everything Percival hated.

Percival walked up to the wall, his hand hovering over the paint. He didn't touch it, but he stared at it with an intensity that bordered on reverence. "It’s resilient," he whispered, mostly to himself. "The primer didn't work. The solvent didn't work. It’s almost like they knew exactly how to treat the surface to make it stick."

Zinnia felt a surge of pride, quickly replaced by a cold knot of dread. "Maybe it’s meant to stay," she said softly.

Percival turned, his eyes searching hers. The proximity was stifling. He looked at her as if he were trying to solve a puzzle, his gaze traveling from her face to her shoulders, then back to her eyes. "You have paint on your sleeve," he noted, his voice dropping an octave.

Zinnia stiffened, her hand instinctively going to her elbow. There was a tiny, dried smear of cerulean blue she had missed during her morning wash. She laughed, a brittle, nervous sound. "I was helping in the supply closet earlier. Must have brushed against a marker."

Percival didn't look convinced. He took a step closer, his focus intense. "You’re an odd girl, Zinnia. You stay quiet, you do your work, but you look at this city like you’re waiting for it to change."

"I am," she replied, her voice steadying. "Aren't you?"

The rain began to fall in earnest, heavy droplets splashing against the pavement. The workers retreated to their van, leaving the two of them alone in the narrow space. Percival didn't move. He stood in the rain, his expensive suit darkening as it soaked through. He wasn't looking at the building anymore; he was looking at her, his expression a complicated mix of frustration and something much softer, something he clearly didn't want to feel.

"I don't like being out of control," he said, his voice barely audible over the sound of the downpour. "I don't like not knowing who is behind this. But standing here, in this, I find I don't want to go back inside."

Zinnia stood her ground, the rain plastering her hair to her cheeks. She was terrified, yet for the first time, she felt seen. "Then don't," she urged. "Look at the wings, Percival. Really look at them. They aren't trying to destroy your building. They’re trying to lift it."

No.2

He finally looked back at the wall, his shoulders relaxing just a hair. The tension that defined him seemed to bleed away in the rain. "Lift it," he repeated, the words tasting strange on his tongue. "I’ve spent millions trying to erase you, haven't I?"

The 'you' hung in the air, suspended between them. Zinnia didn't correct him. She couldn't.

Days passed, and the atmosphere in the office shifted. Percival stopped yelling about the mural. He stopped demanding the cleaning crews return. Instead, he spent hours in his office, his door left slightly ajar. He began to leave notes for Zinnia—small, cryptic observations about the city, about the way light hit the buildings at dusk, about the color of the sky.

She responded in kind, leaving sketches in his inbox, anonymous little gifts of charcoal and graphite that documented the hidden beauty of the city he owned but never touched. It was a secret language, a dance of shadows and paper.

Then came the gala. The Stone Tower was hosting an industry charity event, a black-tie affair that required every employee to be on deck. Zinnia was assigned to the coat check, a role that kept her in the periphery of the gala’s main floor. She wore a simple black dress, her hair pinned up, her face hidden behind a mask of professional subservience.

Percival was in his element, holding court with investors and board members. He looked regal, the picture of a titan in his element. But every few minutes, his eyes would wander across the room, searching for something. When he finally locked eyes with Zinnia, he excused himself from a conversation with a senator and walked toward her.

"The gala is a bore," he said, stopping in front of the counter.

"It’s a success," Zinnia countered, folding a silk scarf. "You’ve raised millions for the foundation."

"Money is easy," he replied, his eyes scanning the crowd before returning to her. "It’s the things you can't buy that keep me up at night."

"Like what?"

"Like the truth." He lowered his voice, the sound vibrating in the narrow space between them. "I checked the building’s security footage from the night the last mural appeared. The cameras were looped, but the glitch was too perfect. Only someone with access to the internal network could have done it. Someone who knows the security rotation, the blind spots, and the shift patterns."

Zinnia felt her stomach drop. She didn't speak, her breath hitching in her throat.

Percival stepped closer, his presence commanding the space around them. "I spent all day looking at your desk, Zinnia. Not the work on it. The desk itself. I found a stray tube of oil paint tucked inside a drawer of paperclips. And the sketches you left me? The strokes are identical to the ones on the wall."

Zinnia froze. The room seemed to tilt, the music and the clinking of champagne glasses fading into a dull roar. "Are you going to fire me?" she asked, her voice small.

Percival didn't answer immediately. He looked at her, really looked at her, his flinty eyes softening into something that felt like a quiet storm. "Fire you? I’ve been trying to find you for months. I’ve been obsessed with you. Every time I tried to scrub that wall, I felt like I was erasing a part of myself that I didn't know existed."

He didn't move to touch her, but his proximity was a physical force, a wall of heat that left her breathless. "I was arrogant," he continued, his voice thick with a sudden, raw vulnerability. "I thought I knew what mattered. I thought I knew what beauty was. You proved me wrong, every single night. You took my gray world and forced it to acknowledge that there was something beyond the bottom line."

"I was just trying to survive, Percival," she whispered. "I needed to express what the office wouldn't let me say."

"And what do you want to say now?" he asked, his gaze unyielding.

Zinnia gathered her courage, looking up at him. The power dynamic that had governed their lives—the boss and the intern, the landlord and the trespasser—dissolved in the face of the truth. "I want to paint something that belongs here. Not on the back alley, but on the main lobby wall. Something that belongs to the building, not against it."

Percival laughed, a genuine, startled sound that surprised them both. "You’re asking to deface my lobby?"

"I'm asking for a commission."

He looked at her for a long, silent minute, the tension between them shifting from defensive to something purely, intensely electric. "I suppose," he said slowly, "that I’ve already authorized the budget for maintenance. We might as well put it toward something permanent."

The gala continued around them, a blur of wealth and status, but for those few minutes, Zinnia and Percival were in a world of their own. The air between them was thick with unspoken words, the kind of weight that only comes from a long-held secret finally released. Percival looked at her as if he were seeing the city for the first time, his gaze lingering on the way the light caught her eyes.

"Tomorrow," he said, his voice dropping to a low, intimate register. "Bring your supplies. The lobby is empty on Sunday mornings."

No.3

Zinnia nodded, her heart hammering against her ribs. "I'll be there."

"I'll be waiting," he replied.

He turned and walked back into the crowd, but he didn't look at the investors. He kept his eyes on the doors, as if he were already counting down the hours until the building was quiet again. Zinnia leaned against the counter, her hands trembling. She had won, but the victory felt different than she had expected. It wasn't about the art anymore. It was about the way he had looked at her—not as an intern, not as a nuisance, but as an equal.

The next morning, the Stone Tower was a cathedral of glass and silence. The morning sun poured through the high windows, casting long, sharp shadows across the polished floor. Zinnia arrived early, her bags heavy with brushes, paints, and stencils. She moved through the lobby with a sense of purpose, her boots clicking against the marble.

Percival was already there. He had removed his jacket, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing strong, capable forearms. He wasn't behind a desk; he was standing in the center of the lobby, looking up at the vast expanse of white wall that served as the building’s centerpiece.

"You're late," he said, though there was no malice in his voice.

"I had to pick up the right pigments," she replied, dropping her bags.

He didn't offer to help, but he didn't leave either. He stayed, watching her work with a quiet, focused intensity. Zinnia began to sketch, her hand moving with a fluidity that only came from hours of practice. She drew not the wings, but the city itself—the way the bridges connected the boroughs, the way the rivers flowed like veins of silver beneath the skyline.

Percival watched as the colors began to bleed onto the wall. He didn't speak for an hour, his silence a comfortable, heavy presence. He leaned against a pillar, his eyes following the movement of her brush. Every time she reached for a color, he would step forward to clear the space, his proximity a constant, grounding force.

"You're very precise," he noted, watching her blend a shade of twilight violet.

"I have to be," she said, not looking up. "The city is messy. The art has to hold it together."

Percival stepped closer, his shadow falling over her work. "I spent my life trying to keep the city in boxes. I thought if I categorized everything, if I made everything efficient, I would be safe."

Zinnia stopped, her brush hovering in the air. "And are you?"

He looked at her, his expression unguarded, the mask of the corporate titan completely shattered. "No. I’m just lonely. I’ve been lonely for a very long time."

He didn't touch her, but he stood so close that the heat from his skin was almost overwhelming. The air in the lobby was thick with the scent of paint and the sharp, clean smell of the morning. Zinnia felt a pull, a magnetic drag toward him that was stronger than any fear.

"You don't have to be," she said, her voice soft.

He reached out, his hand hovering inches from the wall, right next to where she was working. He didn't touch the paint, but he traced the outline of the city she was creating, his fingers moving through the air with a grace that surprised her. "I think I’m beginning to understand that."

The silence stretched, filled only by the soft scrape of her brush against the stone. It was a rhythm they both understood, a language they had been speaking in secret for months. The lobby felt like a sanctuary, a place where the rules of the outside world didn't apply.

"I’m leaving the city next month," Zinnia said, the words coming out before she could stop them. "I have a residency in Paris. I’ve been planning it since before I started the internship."

Percival went still. The air seemed to freeze, the light shifting as the sun moved across the sky. He didn't turn to look at her, but his entire posture stiffened. "Paris."

"It’s a dream of mine," she said, her voice steadying. "I can't stay here, Percival. Not in this office. Not in this cycle."

"I could make you stay," he said, his voice hard. "I could offer you anything."

"I don't want anything," she replied, finally turning to face him. "I want to be able to create without having to hide."

Percival looked at her, his eyes searching hers for a flicker of hesitation. He found none. He looked at the mural, then back at her, his jaw set in a line of stubborn determination. "Then don't leave yet," he whispered. "Give me the month. Let me show you that this city can be more than just a place to hide. Let me show you that I can be more than just the man who owns the walls."

No.4

Zinnia looked at him, feeling the weight of the moment. She had intended to leave, to put the Stone Tower and its CEO behind her. But as she stood there, in the quiet of the morning, with the scent of paint and the presence of the man who had occupied her thoughts for so long, she felt a change. The city wasn't just a backdrop anymore. It was a canvas, and for the first time, she wasn't painting it alone.

"One month," she agreed.

Percival exhaled, a sound of relief that was almost a tremor. "One month."

He didn't move away, but he didn't close the distance. They stood there in the lobby, the sun-drenched space holding the promise of a future that felt both dangerous and inevitable. The mural was half-finished, a bridge between the life she had lived and the life she was choosing.

He turned to the entrance, his pace measured. "I have a meeting," he said, his voice returning to its professional edge, though the warmth in his eyes remained. "But I expect to see you here tomorrow. And every day after that."

"I'll be here," she promised.

She watched him walk away, his stride long and purposeful. He didn't look back, but he paused at the revolving door, his silhouette framed by the glass of the city beyond. For a heartbeat, he hesitated, his hand resting on the metal. Then he stepped out, disappearing into the chaos of the morning rush.

Zinnia turned back to the wall. She picked up her brush, dipping it into a vibrant, deep blue. She didn't feel the need to hide anymore. She felt the weight of the city, the pressure of the corporate world, and the pull of the future, and she felt ready for all of it. She began to paint, the strokes wide and confident, the image of the city taking shape under her hand.

The lobby was no longer just an office space. It was a home. And as she worked, she knew that the month ahead wouldn't be about hiding. It would be about building.

The following weeks were a blur of colors and conversations. Percival stopped treating the office like a battlefield. He started spending more time in the lobby, watching her work, his presence a constant, steadying influence. They didn't touch, they didn't speak of the future beyond the month, but they existed in a bubble of shared intensity that transformed the very atmosphere of the building.

The staff noticed. The executives whispered. The rumors flowed through the halls, but Percival ignored them, and Zinnia didn't care. She was focused on the wall, on the way the paint caught the light, and on the way Percival’s eyes followed her every move.

One evening, as the sun dipped below the skyline, casting the city in shades of gold and copper, Percival walked into the lobby. He was carrying two coffees, the steam rising in the cool evening air. He held one out to her.

"I remembered," he said, his voice low. "One hundred and sixty degrees."

Zinnia took the cup, her fingers brushing against his for the first time. The contact was brief, a spark of electricity that made her breath hitch, but he didn't pull away. He stood there, the warmth of the coffee seeping into her palms, his gaze locked on hers.

"It’s perfect," she whispered.

"I’m learning," he said.

He turned to the mural. It was almost finished. The city was vibrant, alive, a testament to the chaos and the order that had brought them together. He looked at it with a sense of pride that he didn't try to hide.

"It’s not just a mural," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "It’s a story."

"It’s our story," Zinnia replied.

He looked at her, his eyes searching hers. "I don't want you to go, Zinnia. I know I said I would give you the month, but I don't think a month is enough."

Zinnia felt a surge of warmth in her chest. She had come here to escape, to find a new beginning, but she found herself realizing that the beginning she wanted was already here. "Then what do you want?"

"I want to see what happens next," he said. "I want to see what you paint when you don't have to hide. I want to see what this city looks like when we’re both looking at it."

Zinnia took a sip of her coffee, the heat grounding her. She looked at the mural, then at the man standing beside her. The path ahead was uncertain, a tangle of corporate politics and personal risks, but it was a path she was willing to take.

"I’m still going to Paris," she said, her voice firm.

No.5

Percival nodded, his expression unreadable. "I know."

"But," she added, her eyes meeting his, "I’ll be back."

He smiled, a rare, genuine expression that transformed his face. "I’ll be waiting."

The city outside the windows began to light up, the skyscrapers glowing like jewels against the darkening sky. The Stone Tower stood tall, its lobby a beacon of color and life in the middle of the financial district. Zinnia picked up her brush one last time, adding a final, delicate touch to the mural.

She stood back, looking at her work. It was finished.

Percival stood beside her, his gaze sweeping over the wall. He didn't say a word, but his presence was enough. They stood there, two souls caught in the orbit of a city that never stopped changing, and for the first time, they were both looking at the same future.

The lobby was quiet, the only sound the soft hum of the city beyond the walls. Zinnia set her brush down, the weight of the last few months lifting from her shoulders. She turned to Percival, and for the first time, she saw not the CEO, not the landlord, but the man who had been waiting for her all along.

"It’s time," she said.

Percival nodded, his gaze lingering on her face. "It’s time."

They walked to the entrance together, the sound of their footsteps echoing in the vast, empty space. The revolving door spun, and they stepped out into the night. The city air was cool and crisp, filled with the scent of rain and the promise of a new day.

They stood on the sidewalk, the Stone Tower behind them, the city ahead. There were no promises, no grand declarations, just the simple, undeniable truth of the moment. They were two people who had found each other in the middle of the chaos, and that was enough.

As they began to walk, the city seemed to open up before them, a canvas of endless possibilities. The lights of the skyscrapers reached toward the stars, a vibrant, chaotic, beautiful mess that they were now a part of. Zinnia felt the rhythm of the city in her pulse, the art in her blood, and the man beside her, a constant, steady weight in the middle of the change.

The future was uncertain, a story still being written, but as they moved together through the streets, Zinnia knew one thing for sure. Whatever happened next, they would face it the way they had faced the mural: together, with eyes wide open, ready to turn the chaos into something beautiful. The city was theirs, and the story had only just begun.

The rhythm of the streets picked up, the sounds of the night growing around them. The taxis honked, the sirens wailed, and the people moved like a tide, but Zinnia and Percival walked in their own orbit. They reached the end of the block, the corner of the street where the city opened into the park. The trees were dark against the sky, the lights of the city reflecting in the puddles on the ground.

Percival stopped. He looked at the city, then at Zinnia. He didn't speak, but his look said everything. He was a man who had spent his life controlling his world, and now, he was finally ready to let go.

"I’ll see you tomorrow," he said, his voice a promise.

Zinnia smiled. "I’ll be here."

She turned and began to walk toward the subway, her heart light. She felt the city pulsing around her, the energy, the life, the art. She was Zinnia Haze, an artist, a woman, a dreamer, and for the first time, she was exactly where she was meant to be.

Behind her, she could hear the faint, steady sound of Percival’s footsteps as he walked the other way. He was going back to his office, back to his building, back to his life. But he was different now. The lobby was different. The city was different.

The mural was waiting. The future was waiting. And as she stepped into the subway station, the air thick with the smell of the city, Zinnia knew that she would never be the same. The art had changed her, the city had changed her, and the man had changed her.

She was ready for the next chapter.

The train roared into the station, a blur of motion and light. She stepped on, the doors closing behind her, and for a moment, the world was silent. She looked out the window as the train pulled away, the city lights sliding past like a film of gold. She was going home, to a home that had finally become her own.

The city was a masterpiece, and she was its witness. She closed her eyes, the image of the mural behind her eyelids, the colors vivid and alive. She was ready.

The train rattled through the tunnels, the sound a steady heartbeat beneath the city. She thought of the lobby, the way the light had hit the wall, the way Percival had looked at her. It was a memory she would keep, a part of the story she was building.

No.6

She reached her stop and climbed the stairs to the surface. The night air was cool, the city alive with the hum of the late-night crowd. She walked through the streets, the buildings rising like monoliths around her. She was home.

She walked to her apartment, the small, quiet space that had been her refuge for so long. She stepped inside, the room filled with the scent of her art, the charcoal and the graphite and the paint. She sat down at her desk, the silence of the room a comfort.

She picked up her notebook, the pages filled with the life she had been living. She turned to a blank page and began to write, the words flowing like the paint on the wall. She was telling the story, the story of the city, the story of the mural, the story of the man.

It was a story of chaos and order, of light and shadow, of the things that hold us together and the things that pull us apart. It was a story of a woman who painted the world and a man who learned to see it. It was a story that was only just beginning.

She wrote until the sky began to lighten, the dawn creeping into the room like a whisper. She looked at the page, the ink dark and clear, the words a testament to the night. She was ready.

She stood up and went to the window, looking out at the city as it woke up. The sun began to rise, the golden light catching the tops of the buildings, the city waking up to a new day. She felt the weight of the night fall away, the energy of the morning filling her.

She was ready for the day. She was ready for the lobby. She was ready for the man.

The city was a masterpiece, and she was its artist. She grabbed her bag, her brushes, her paints. She was ready to paint the world. She stepped out into the morning, the air fresh and cool, the city humming with life.

She walked to the subway, the streets already filling with the rush of the morning. She felt the energy in the air, the rhythm of the city as it breathed and moved and lived. She was a part of it, a thread in the tapestry of the city, a color in the masterpiece.

She reached the Stone Tower, the building rising like a giant in the morning light. She stepped into the lobby, the space as quiet and as beautiful as the day before. She went to the wall, the mural waiting for her touch.

She picked up her brush and began to paint, the colors flowing like a river of light. She was home. She was an artist. She was Zinnia Haze. And she was exactly where she was meant to be.

The door opened, and Percival walked in. He stopped, looking at her, at the mural, at the world she was creating. He didn't speak, but he didn't need to. He stood beside her, his presence a constant, steady weight, the man who had learned to see the world.

They were together, in the lobby of the Stone Tower, in the middle of the city, in the heart of their story. And the story was only just beginning.

The sun climbed higher, the light filling the lobby with warmth. They stood there, two souls in the middle of the city, the masterpiece unfolding before them. They were ready. They were together. They were home.

The city hummed, the morning rush beginning, the world turning, the life moving. And in the middle of it all, they were still, a quiet center in the middle of the chaos.

They were ready for the next chapter. And as the day began, they knew that whatever happened, they would face it together. The story was theirs, and it was a story of light and color, of beauty and truth, of a city that was a masterpiece and a love that was a work of art.

The mural was a bridge, a path, a promise. It was the story of the city and the story of the man and the woman who had found each other in the middle of it all. And it was a story that would never end.

The lobby was filled with the light of the morning, the mural a glowing testament to the life they were building. They were ready. The story was theirs. And the story was only just beginning.

They were Zinnia and Percival, and this was their city. And this was their story. And it was a beautiful one.

The city breathed. The mural glowed. The people moved. And they stood together, in the middle of it all, a heartbeat in the middle of the city, a light in the middle of the dark.

They were ready for the day. They were ready for the life. They were ready for the world.

The sun was high now, the light filling the lobby, the mural a vibrant explosion of color and life. They were ready. The story was theirs. And it was a story that would never end.

They were Zinnia and Percival, and this was their city. And this was their story. And it was a beautiful one.

The lobby was a sanctuary, a place of peace and beauty in the middle of the city. They were home. They were together. They were ready.

No.7

The story was only just beginning. And it was a story that was a work of art.

The day was full of promise, the city full of life, the world full of color. They were ready. The story was theirs. And it was a story of a city that was a masterpiece and a love that was a work of art.