Gu Zhijing seemed to have found a new muse.
Though he never painted portraits, he secretly kept a painting of her in his studio.
When I saw the portrait covered with red cloth, I called on the System that had been on standby for three years. “I regret it. I want to leave this world.”
Time and again, Gu Zhijing urged me to hand over the gallery's management rights to that newcomer.
He said that once he'd helped her get through this rough patch, he would return the gallery to me.
I smiled and agreed, then made one request: I wanted him to paint my portrait.
It wasn't until a press conference, when a reporter asked what he thought about my sudden death, that his face turned worse than it had been when I died.
The renowned painter, celebrated at home and abroad, never picked up a paintbrush again after seeing my portrait at the funeral.
