The screen partially went blank, giving Revenge time to speak in his cartoon demon voice. His appearance didn't please my gaze, but my eyes got used to his nebulous appearance.
His skeletal hand, delicately covered in a misty garment, moved the feather he intertwined. He pronounced without rising from his scribe's forge." Dearest, I'll give you a short break. Your conscience, which is unlike your body, suffers from this present moment, has to rest. And since your charming misty husband is a tender and elegant monster, I will give you access to the memories of your repugnant lover so you can take a break."
The screen suddenly became noisy. Joo-seo's voice sounded. The conversations he was having with his inner self echoed around the room.

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༘ Joo-seo's rigorous compas
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The crime scene was bathed in the bluish light of the silent moon. Its glow cascaded down the lonely street.
My noisy steps approached the smell of misery that reigned over this thatched cottage in the shadow of the law.
Hope had left this crime lair, where an acrid smell of mould seemed to permeate the walls.
Canvas number 1: The rope drew a cruel line across his neck. Suspended from the ceiling, the man, or what looked to me like a father, ironically waltzed through the air, finally freed from the earth's oxygen, swimming calmly in the cold of death.
There was nothing but perfection in that first shot. The father didn't leave his life. He was forced to.
There was a reddish trace of rope on his hands. This led to thinking that he was held hostage before he offered freedom to his soul.

Canvas number 2: New atmosphere. The victim was struck by a short death. It's a revenge. It was a powder of resentment that covered the body of the alcoholic woman. The scattering of blood proved the criminal's skills.
The autor of the second painting did not paint the first but was inspired by this masterpiece to unleash his creativity.

My eyes inspected the frescoes. My gaze rested on a check that was on the floor.
I reached for my notebook and spilt my analysis on the blank paper.
"Victims are guilty. Parents always have been." My toughts involuntarily slipped from my pen.
I gave my conclusions to the sergeant who accompanied me on my search and asked him to focus on the check that was distracting my concentration.
The father of the family wanted to take advantage of the money in the dirty check. Whoever offered him the money was the murderer.
The search was brief. It began with a quest to find the poet of stage one, bearing the graceful name of Eirian.
The Welshman who had written the zeros on that significant piece of paper had sketched the first canvas.
This search for thrilled art creators was both effortless and all too obvious. The masterpieces complement each other. So, I drew a simple deduction estimating that the fate of the second crime was signed by a weak-minded orphan.