In the loft of Montmartre in Paris, the smell of paint and blood is equally strong. Leah Moran used her paintbrush to daub her memories, but she could never paint the truth about the fire in Silvermoon Valley eight years ago—how her parents, loved ones, and unborn child were torn apart in the moonlight. The claw marks on her shoulders have long since scabbed, but the werewolf instinct has been sealed together with the memory of that night, leaving only the burning pain of the full moon night and the silver emblem that she cannot understand that appears repeatedly on the canvas.
Noah Winter came into her life with lavender tea and calm eyes. The art therapist's fingers could soothe the tremors of her paintbrush, and his presence was like a candle, slowly melting her frozen cracks. Trust grew between the silent gaze and the colors on the canvas, until she caught a glimpse of the inhuman silver light flashing deep in his irises in an out-of-control nightmare.
She began to frantically trace the origin of the badge in the painting, and the clues were like bloody threads, winding all the way, and finally entwined around the ancient surname "Winter".
When the last memory fragments were put together to reveal the mark on the Slayer's collar that was identical to the Noah clan emblem, Leah tightened her grip on the palette knife. In front of her was the man she loved deeply, and behind her were the souls of her relatives in the bloody ruins.
The moonlight will still rise. And this time, will the paint in her pen be filled with the flame of revenge or the tears of atonement?
Concept: We use love as paint to try to cover the blood of the past. It wasn't until the last stroke came down that I realized that I was copying the face of my enemy.