Preparing to Go Out

Blink—

It was a ceiling I had grown used to by now, and yet one I had not seen in quite some time.

Ever since my body had transformed into a woman's, I no longer felt any of the basic human drives — hunger, lust, the need for sleep. Lost in my work, I could no longer say how long it had been since I last truly rested.

Still, after a proper sleep for the first time in ages, both body and mind felt pleasantly loose and uncoiled.

I rose from the bed and stepped out of the room.

When I had first arrived, the exhibition hall had been empty of any work at all. Now it was filled with pieces I had created and carefully selected myself.

I made a light circuit of the gallery, checking that nothing had gone missing.

Greeting the works that cheerfully welcomed me in return, I headed for the kitchen.

I entered the spotless kitchen — not a speck of dust to be found — tied on an apron, and began to cook.

This morning's breakfast would be a simple French toast.

I cracked eggs into a bowl, added milk and sugar, and whisked them thoroughly before letting a few drops of vanilla oil fall into the mixture and stirring again.

I cut slices from a loaf of bread I had prepared in advance, soaked them well in the finished mixture, then set a pan over the flame and dropped in a pat of butter.

As the butter melted, a rich, fragrant aroma filled the entire dining room.

I savored the scent for a moment, then laid the well-soaked bread onto the fully melted butter and began to fry it.

Over medium-low heat I flipped the bread several times until it was golden brown, then transferred the finished slices to a plate.

Finally, I placed a small piece of butter atop the warm toast and dusted it lightly with sugar—

French toast, complete.

I carried two finished plates to the table, fetched glasses, and poured milk into each.

"I shall enjoy this meal."

I offered the greeting to no one in particular, then blinked — eyes closed, eyes open — and the French toast on the plate across from me had vanished without a trace.

I was not the least bit startled. I simply asked,

"Brush, how was it?"

"Well, I never expected much from French toast to begin with."

Among the artists who occasionally visited to appreciate my work, I had taken a few private lessons from the Chef, so I had a fair amount of confidence in my cooking. Even so, one could hardly hope for a Masterpiece or Masterwork from something as simple as French toast.

Then again — if ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠it were the Chef, perhaps even French toast could become a Masterpiece.

With that thought, I cut into my own French toast with a knife and brought a piece to my mouth.

Crisp.

The moment it touched my tongue, the deep richness of the butter greeted me. The moist bread then dissolved softly, and the sweetness was gentle — never overbearing. The fragrant, delicate aroma of the vanilla oil wrapped around my palate, delivering a satisfaction not unlike that of a warm dessert.

"Mmm."

Even to ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠my own taste, the flavor and aroma were thoroughly satisfying. I alternated between the French toast and the milk, enjoying my breakfast at leisure.

"Thank you for the meal."

I cleared the empty plates and cooking utensils, then returned to my room.

I turned on the water for the bathtub and stretched my body thoroughly, working out the remaining stiffness.

Once the stretching was done and the water had filled the tub more than halfway, I shut off the faucet and dropped in a bath salt of my own making.

I had crafted it from flower petals gathered across various spaces, selecting only the scents that pleased me most. The fragrance of the bath salt filled the room.

Smiling faintly at the pleasant aroma, I undressed and stepped into the tub, savoring the bath.

Lately I had been wearing only full-coverage work clothes for the pieces I was creating, so it had been some time since I last looked closely at my own body.

And looking at it again after so long, there was nothing to say except that it remained beautiful.

When I had first changed from a man into a woman, the sudden reversal of my body had been a considerable shock in many ways. But by now I had fully adapted to this form, and having spent more time as a woman than as a man, this felt far more natural.

There was not a speck of dirt on me, yet because it had been so long since my last bath, I ended up spending quite a while in the water.

Before getting out, I submerged myself one last time, counted to sixty, and then climbed from the tub.

With water still dripping from my hands, I picked up the Brush resting beside the bathtub, held it to my body, and said,

"Brush, if you would be so kind."

"Oh, come now. If you help me, I can bring the runaway children home that much faster — and then I can devote myself to my work that much sooner, can't I?"

"Yes, yes. Understood."

Just as it had absorbed my blood on that first day, the Brush — starting from the point of contact — rapidly drew in every drop of moisture clinging to my skin, and the water vanished into it.

In the beginning, terrified of the unpredictable pain that might come, I would never have dreamed of making such a request. But after countless hours spent together, having largely grasped the Brush's temperament, I had taken to putting it to work whenever something tedious needed doing.

Confirming that my hair and body were now soft and dry, I tidied the area around the bathtub and went to the wardrobe.

Opening the doors revealed an ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠interior packed with clothing of every kind — from sleepwear and everyday outfits to formal dresses and pieces fit for a fashion runway.

A few of the garments were ones I had made myself, but the vast majority had been given to me by an artist who had come to appreciate my paintings: the Tailor.

Ah — the Tailor was the very one whose remark had turned me from a man into a woman.

I later learned that there had been no intention of changing my gender. The Tailor had simply wanted to dress me personally, having been so taken with the splendid works I had shown… Well, at first I had resented it a great deal, and I had thrown tantrums demanding to be restored. But now the Tailor frequently visited my Art Gallery as a guest — admiring the works, keeping me company in conversation, or gifting me clothes like these — and we lived as kindly neighbors.

After a brief reminiscence of my first meeting with the Tailor, I returned to the present and considered what to wear.

Every single garment the Tailor had made was of such quality that choosing among them was a genuine ordeal.

After a moment's deliberation, I reached a decision and drew out a dress with a base of pure white, like freshly fallen snow, adorned with luminous rubies.

‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠

Grateful for the Tailor's consideration in designing it so that I could put it on and take it off alone, I donned the accompanying undergarments and the dress itself, then turned a full circle before the mirror to inspect my appearance.

As expected of a form the Brush had personally selected — flawlessly beautiful, without a single point of criticism. Combined with the Tailor's dress, even I had to admit the result was thoroughly captivating.

Finally, I gathered the wide-brimmed hat and parasol that had come with the dress, along with the one thing I could never leave behind — the Brush — and stepped out of the room.

I passed through the exhibition hall where my works were displayed and came to a stop before the single great door that led outside.

"Well then — shall we go recover my children, Brush?"

I held the Brush to the door. It opened, revealing a passage filled with pure white light beyond.

Eager to reclaim the works of my embarrassing early years as quickly as possible, I stepped toward the light.

It truly had been a long time since I last went out.

Meanwhile, at the very hour Ars set out to recover her works—

A woman whose body was wrapped in bandages here and there, a cute bear-character band-aid stuck to her face, sat in what was commonly called an executive chair behind a desk bearing a nameplate that read Kwon Si-yeon, Director of the Korea General Branch of the Paranormal Management Bureau. She was staring fixedly at a single sheet of paper.

At the top of the page, a blacked-out rectangle bore a red line and the stamped word [REDACTED].

Beneath the obscured photograph, a detailed description of something had been carefully written.

Having read every word on the page without skipping a single one, Kwon Si-yeon addressed the secretary in an office suit standing across from her.

"I don't see anything particularly unusual. Why is the containment class A?"

"After the initial recovery, it was stored in a sealed room for a day. By the next morning, it had vanished without a trace — and was back on display at the Pound Gallery."

"That alone doesn't fully justify an A-class designation."

"After the second recovery, we covered the statue with a black cloth, assigned surveillance staff on three rotating shifts, and recorded continuously via CCTV around the clock… and yet it disappeared again without a trace. This time, it reappeared at the Halla Gallery on Jeju Island."

"So its location wasn't fixed to the Pound Gallery?"

"Correct. And after the third recovery, we used the Bureau's technology to isolate the entire room containing the statue — space and all. No further escapes have been confirmed since."

Spatial isolation. A method that severed the space between the interior and exterior of a containment chamber, rendering entry or exit by ordinary means effectively impossible — in practical terms, the last resort available to the Bureau.

If even this method failed to contain something, only two options remained.

Destroy it, or abandon it.

And so Kwon Si-yeon could not help but ask,

"Why wasn't it destroyed?"

Spatial isolation consumed considerable resources. As a rule, once matters reached this stage, Bureau protocol prioritized destruction over continued containment.

That the paperwork had sailed straight through to spatial isolation in the few days of her absence struck Kwon Si-yeon as deeply irregular.

And the secretary's answer to her question was…

"…It isn't as though no one internally argued for destruction after the second escape. But when we identified its location and arrived at the Halla Gallery on Jeju Island, there were already people there who had arrived ahead of the Bureau."

"Who?"

"One full artist of the Art Society and nine apprentices were already in the process of moving the statue."

"?!"

Even she could not help but be startled by the sudden appearance of that name — a global terrorist organization.