VENICE HAS NO SUN

⚠️ WARNING: BEFORE YOU ENTER THE GALLERY

Welcome to the shadows of Venice, a place where art is not merely observed—it is distilled from life and agony. Before you turn the first page, ensure your heart is steady enough for what lies ahead:

On Content: This work contains graphic descriptions of Body Horror, the desecration of the human form in the name of art, and occult spiritual practices. If you are sensitive to themes of anatomy, mummification, or psychological abuse, proceed with extreme caution.

On Atmosphere: The narrative is shrouded in a suffocating, hopeless air, exploring the fragile veil between death and immortality. There will be moments that leave you breathless—in the most literal and visceral sense.

A Word of Advice: Do not read this alone in the dark, unless you wish to hear the rhythmic ticking of a bone-inlaid pendulum clock echoing right against your ear.

Art is a razor-sharp blade. Once picked up, you cannot set it down without leaving a scar.

Are you ready to "recycle" your soul?

VENICE HAS NO SUN

Prelude: Cracks upon the Plaster Face

Venice, 17xx.

The city resembled a corpse adorned in lavish makeup. Under the silver moonlight, Baroque mansions cast their shadows onto the dark green waters of the Grand Canal, flaunting curvaceous reliefs like the pleated skirts of a drunken noblewoman. Here, people worshipped beauty to the extreme. They would weep over a single streak of color on Murano glass, yet casually step over a beggar shivering beneath the Bridge of Sighs.

A merchant ship trudged into the muddy harbor. Amidst the swarming sailors and the stench of rotten fish, Nam stood—a tiny speck from the distant East. He ignored the brilliant lanterns flickering across the piazza. His eyes, long accustomed to tracing every wood grain and mother-of-pearl shard, locked onto something else: the microscopic cracks on the marble pillars of the pier.

To Nam, Venice held no splendor. It felt like a flawed piece of lacquerware; one touch would peel away the aristocratic veneer, exposing the rot beneath. He gripped his rough cloth tool kit, which hid a small vial of pure fish sauce—a pungent, sharp scent, the only thing preventing him from dissolving into the city’s cloying, artificial perfume.

A few blocks away, in a sculpture studio so quiet it bordered on terrifying, Lorenzo stood before his newest "work." The flickering candlelight stretched his shadow against the wall into long, spindly tentacles. He held no chisel. Instead, he gripped a silk handkerchief, gently wiping sweat from a still-wet block of plaster.

"Don’t tremble," Lorenzo whispered, his voice as coarse as gravel grinding together. "Fear makes a magnificent sculptor. It tightens the muscles at the right moment; it breaks the breath at the perfect rhythm. You shall become immortal in this form. Thank me."

Outside the window, the melodic strains of a lute drifted from a distant gala. A morbid harmony.

"Are you the Vietnamese artisan?"

Lorenzo stood on the second-floor balcony, gazing down at the young Easterner kneeling beside the statue of Saint Sebastian in the courtyard. Nam did not look up. His fingers grazed the statue’s left arch.

"Yes, signore," Nam replied, his Italian stiff but clear.

"The shopkeeper says your eyes see the soul of the material. What do you see in my work?"

Nam stopped his hand. Where the arrow pierced the statue’s leg, a tiny fissure split the surface. From that crack, a thick, reddish-brown fluid oozed out. It carried no tint of stone or paint. It radiated the smell of iron—a scent Nam knew too well from the years of chaos in his homeland.

He paused, then slowly looked up at Lorenzo. The sculptor’s deep blue eyes bored into him, awaiting either a tribute or a death sentence.

"Your plaster is beautiful," Nam spoke, his voice unnervingly calm. "But it is broken. Something inside... refuses to die."

The smile on Lorenzo’s lips remained, but a cold light flashed in his eyes.

"Broken? That is life, artisan. Do you wish to help me... conceal it with your glittering shards of pearl?"

Nam looked down at the dried blood on his hand. He understood then: he hadn't come here to restore art. He had come to inlay jewels upon a crime.

A heavy silence fell, broken only by the canal water slapping against the foundation. Lorenzo waited. That silence felt more menacing than any shout.

Within Nam’s mind, two selves tore at each other. One urged him to turn and flee this grotesque mansion. But the artisan, the one who saw the "thing that refuses to die," felt a cruel curiosity: What was his true art? What did that soul... look like?

And somewhere, deeper than fear or curiosity, the image of his late mother surfaced. Her withered hands once taught him to inlay each shard: "Son, the Heart in our craft matters more than the Talent." Now, that Heart was bleeding.

"I will do it," Nam’s voice rang out, steadier than he expected. "But I need to know... the true 'material' I am inlaying."

Lorenzo laughed—a dry, delighted sound. He had found more than an artisan; he had found a potential companion in his madness.

With eyes that traced every crack and a heart heavy with doubt, Nam followed Lorenzo deeper into the shadows of the manor. He remained oblivious to the truth: with every step upon the cold stone stairs, light retreated further away, leading him straight into a sanctuary where darkness was worshipped like a religion