“Love is much like a wild rose, beautiful and calm, but willing to draw blood in its defense.” -- Mark Overby

The subject of art is objective.  A painting, a sculpture, it’s all art.  Isn’t it?
He paints with red on black.  With his fingers, he draws shapes, squiggles on the concrete walls.  A few dribbles here, a few dribbles there.  
There was a painting the other day that he had created, left there for all the world to enjoy.  it was his one and only masterpiece, one that he had poured his heart into.  With a cheerful grin and a steady hand, he had prepared the painting and flourished in it.  Glorified it.  Turning a dingy grey wall into a red-hued symphony was his specialty, and this piece was one of the most intricate and unique of them all.  Every small splotch by hand, he would decorate the wall with a mosaic of red.  
He started painting on that one fateful day.  He would remember it clearly, wouldn’t he?  The first time he saw the signature red paint, he dove right in, swirling patterns on the wooden floor.  Never mind the sounds behind him; he was a fast and efficient artist, never leaving a signature or a mark of any sort to distinguish him.  But everyone knew.  Everyone had heard of the mystery artist, the man in red, the scarlet mask.  
Every night, after painting, he would come back to his house and turn on the lights, hurrying giddily towards the bedroom he knew his boyfriend would be in.  He would quietly enter and slide into bed with him, kissing the cold forehead.  He would his face, leaving streaks of red on the pale skin.  He would run his hands through the short, cropped hair, ignoring the spikes that the paint gave it. He would lean against his chest to whisper small things in his ear.
“I made another painting today, darling.  I bet you’d love it.”
“You’ll never guess who I saw today, honey!  It was Yesung.  We didn’t talk much.”
“I fulfilled another promise today, baby.”
 

They would always find the bodies beneath those paintings.  

~~~~~

Wow, that was strange.  And short.  Very short.  Sorry there wasn't a picture this time; there aren't any KangRy pictures out there.  XD

In case you didn't understand what happened, which you probably didn't, Kangin was murdered, so Henry went out and killed people that were involved in it, and paint with their blood.