Chapter Text
War had only recently moved to Santiwan District, a peaceful, friendly street where everyone knew each other, and every street corner had a neighbour with a warm smile. He was the perfect fit. In his early thirties, War had a charm that made him instantly likeable. His appearance was deceptively normal—black, slightly curly hair and a friendly smile with a dimple. His eyes, though ordinary, had a warmth that made people feel comfortable. He always smiled, a smile that could make anyone feel at ease.
When he first arrived, War had introduced himself with the kind of warmth that suggested he had lived in the neighbourhood for years. He made an impression immediately, offering to help Mrs. Phan with her groceries, and carrying her heavy bags even though he didn’t need to. She smiled gratefully at him, as did everyone else, noticing the same thing: War’s genuine kindness was not a facade, but a part of who he was.
War’s house, a simple two-story home at the end of the street, drew curiosity from the neighbours. From the outside, it was modest, and well-maintained, with a sloping roof covered in faded terracotta tiles, a few potted plants and delicate creeping vines decorated the front, giving the space a cosy feel. The air around it smelled faintly of jasmine and the warm earthiness of the nearby garden, but inside, it was a different world.
The air in the house was thick with the scent of paint and clay, a peculiar blend that clung to the walls and seemed to seep into every corner. The living room, though spacious, felt unnervingly quiet. The silence was punctuated only by the soft rustling of fabric as War moved around, arranging his tools or adjusting the lighting.
His artworks—paintings, sculptures, and textured installations—layered the room, each one more detailed than the last. They seemed almost alive, flickering in the dim light like things that might stir if you looked away for too long. The walls were lined with large canvases, bright with bold colours, but the sculptures drew all the attention. Some were twisted, almost grotesque in form, while others appeared as delicate as glass flowers, suspended in mid-air by invisible threads.
The atmosphere in the house felt heavy. War's footsteps echoed on the hardwood floors as he moved from one creation to the next, his presence adding an eerie calm to the space. No one ever stayed long, not even the few neighbours who had been invited in. There was something mesmerizing about it, something that left an uneasy feeling in the air, though no one could explain why. And yet, everyone adored him. It was impossible to resist his charm and generosity.
He was rarely seen outside the house for long periods, disappearing for days at a time. When he returned, it was always with a large, heavy suitcase, which he carried carefully into the house. The sound of the suitcase dragging on the ground felt unsettling, like a door closing that should never be opened.
War’s trips were always a mystery. No one knew where he went or what he did, but many assumed he travelled for art exhibitions or prestigious commissions in far-off places. When he returned, he often brought unique gifts for his neighbours—rare flowers, intricate trinkets, or handmade keepsakes from distant lands. These thoughtful gestures only added to his charm and the surrounding him.