Finn barreled down the hallway, adrenaline surging, convinced he had to intervene—something in Hayes’s trembling voice had tipped him off that boundaries had been crossed. The classroom door loomed ahead like a barrier between control and chaos, and he swung it wide. What greeted him stole his breath: a scene of pure, unfiltered horror.

Rows of easels stood abandoned, brushes dripping with wet paint and palettes smeared in frantic colors—splashes of crimson, obsidian, bruised purples. The floor was sticky beneath his shoes, as though the paint had pooled and coagulated into a trap. And there, at the center of it all, lay the figure: lifeless, twisted, robbed of warmth. The body’s stark stillness contrasted with the vivid mess, as if the very soul had been squeezed out and splattered across the canvas boards and floor alike.

Hayes froze beside him, hand trembling on the edge of his desk, wide-eyed with shock and guilt. His gaze flickered between Finn and the horror on the ground. His usual composure—quiet confidence, the gentle calm of an artist’s mentor—was shattered. Now, his shoulders slumped, chin quivered, and that unmistakable guilt echoed in every silent question he refused to voice.

Finn’s breath stopped and started. He forced himself to swallow past the bile rising in his throat. The stench of paint, mingled with something more metallic and raw, filled his nostrils—but it was the sight that clawed at him. His eyes burned. His hands shook. For a heartbeat, time seemed elastic, stretched across the vast gap between action and incomprehension.

Then methodical chaos erupted. Finn went into cop mode instinctively—civilian instincts, suspecting trouble. He crouched low, edging closer to the body, all while shouting into his phone: “Unit 7, code red! Hostile suspect in art classroom. Request immediate backup!” His tone, clipped and urgent, contrasted with the emotional turmoil ripping through his chest. Hayes, still rooted by guilt, watched helplessly.

Finn squatted beside the body, scanning for wounds: a blunt trauma across the temple—dark, crystallizing pool beneath the head, dried already, crimson seeping into the rough concrete. The victim’s eyes were half‑open, unseeing, face slack in a tragic finality. Finn swallowed hard, forcing his mind into procedure. Secure the scene. Identify the body. Find a suspect. Control witnesses.

He glanced up at Hayes, whose mouth quivered. “Stay where you are. Don’t touch anything,” he ordered, voice firm. Hayes nodded, a small, haunted movement. His eyes darted to the mess on the floor—paintbrushes broken, canvases torn, shades mixed beyond recognition. His face went pale, as though he recognized something ugly he’d tried to suppress.

Finn gently placed gloves over his hands and scanned the perimeter. Every footprint, every splatter could be evidence. He moved toward a shattered window at the back—its frame splintered, lock broken. Cool air filtered in, lifting the smell of wet earth from outside. Had the killer used it? Finn’s instincts whispered yes.

Back at the victim, he gently shifted the head to check for identification. A student, maybe a guest lecturer? No ID visible in torn pockets. Blood matted the hair. The victim’s last work lay half‑finished on an easel—a portrait, perhaps, of serene delight, the stark contrast adding to the horror. Finn closed his eyes momentarily. Who had paused life to paint beauty—and taken the other?

A siren wailed. The backup arrived. Two officers flooded the room, scanning the scene. A frown crossed Finn’s forehead. Protocol demanded restricting access, preserving evidence. He began calling it in—body, scene, witnesses—noting the broken window as a likely entry point. Gray, sterile light from overhead fluorescents paled the room; the vivid red stains became incontrovertible, shocking against normalcy.

He looked again at Hayes, now pressed against the wall, silently trembling. Finn moved over, grabbing Hayes’s shoulder gently and steering him away from the scene. “Tell me everything you saw, Hayes,” he said softly. Hayes swallowed hard, eyes glistening with regret. “I… I heard a crash and came back—I… they were here already. I froze.” His voice broke. “I should’ve done something.”

Finn nodded and offered a reassuring hand. “Not your fault,” he said, though he couldn’t yet wrap his head around the intent and cruelty behind the act. “We’ll get answers.” Hayes shook his head, gaze locked on the body. “I painted her portrait last week—she… she was laughing in class. Just yesterday.” He bit his lip. “We were supposed to have an exhibition.”

Exhibition. A word now tainted. Finn closed his eyes. The idea of a murderer stepping into a place of creation—a space of freedom and inspiration—and destroying someone for reasons unknown was a violation. It felt… personal.

The forensics team set up. Finn tried to stay in control, breathing in and out, refusing to let panic rise. He helped cordon off the area. His radio crackled. He answered: evidence being processed, medical en route, suspect at large. He nodded. He glanced back at Hayes—standing over the body, tears glistening down his cheeks.

“Take down names of students who were here,” Finn told a junior officer. “Hayes, you too. Anyone who came or went today.” His mental gears churned. He needed motive. Jealousy? Mistaken identity? A statement against beauty, art, life?

He walked over to the shattered window, crouched, carefully scooping fragments into an evidence bag. Outside, grass lay undisturbed, footprints maybe fading. He followed them—one, two, three, heading down the fire escape. Another team moved swiftly to secure the exterior. Finn stayed, watching the scene—his senses sharp, bracing for what came next.

As the room filled with blue-gloved professionals, Finn steeled himself for the long hours ahead. The victim’s portrait, still on the easel, caught his attention. He wiped a stray handprint off the frame. Under the grime, he glimpsed the initialed signature. “A.C.” he thought. Maybe that would help. He made a note to photograph it.

Above all else, Finn knew this was more than murder. It was betrayal of sanctuary, a desecration of art and trust. He would need to untangle the emotions, interviews, records—everything. But in that moment, standing amid shattered reverie and silent horror, he made a silent vow: he would not let this go unsolved. Not for the victim. Not for Hayes. And not for the sanctity of this place, where someone had walked in and extinguished life like a careless stroke on canvas.

Then Finn looked at the victim once more, offering a moment of quiet respect. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I will find who did this.” And with that promise echoing in his chest, he turned to face the growing task—knowing that ever after, Hayes’s art classroom would never be the same.