A/N: Welcome to the revised version of my one-shot, "The Artist". Okay, first off, I'm really sorry for the confusion this might have caused. I didn't want to make anyone upset or disappointed. However, I just decided that maybe mythology wasn't the correct path for me to take. So, I've changed the story entirely and made "The Artist" a simple one-shot and this is a spin-off of sorts.

This has major differences, including:

1) The doll isn't the main focus.

2) Ichigo has paranoid schizophrenia.

3) Rukia is an actual real living, breathing human being.

4) No Greek Gods and Goddesses.

5) This is (going to be) much darker.

Please give me feedback in the reviews as to whether this a step in the right direction, though I have no plans in changing it any more than I already have.

SPECIAL THANKS TO: Hekka, WhiteMoonofDeath, and especially Peridot0814 for helping me think through a new plot-line!

WARNINGS: None so far.

DISCLAIMER: Bleach and its characters belong to Tite Kubo.

Enjoy!

Prologue

"Mirror, mirror—tell me something.

Who's the loneliest of all?"

Gritting his teeth, he stared at the covered canvas angrily. It just wasn't working. Nothing was working. No matter how hard he tried, nothing would come out right. The tan vase holding a dozen or so violet roses was great—beautiful even. However, it was too boring. It lacked emotion.As did all of his other paintings before that—this was the fourth time he'd painted something horribly.

A cool hand grasped his shoulder, nails digging into the fabric-covered skin slightly. His breath hitched and the paint brush fell from his hands. Icy breath wafted over his neck, raising goose bumps on the tan flesh. He could picture it, as if the being was standing before him. Pallid lips stretched into an impossibly wide grin.

"Heh. Ya jus' have no talent, do ya, King?" the smallest of whispers sounded in his ear. That echoic, taunting voice pushed him over the edge and the artist grabbed his canvas from the stand. Getting to his feet abruptly, knocking over his stool, he swung the rectangular painting at his haunting apparition.

"SHUT UP!"

Laughter sounded, and then quieted into nothing as the being disappeared at the strike of the canvas, fading away like mist. The painter panted for lost breath. It was so easy for that bastard to rile him up. He stared at the painting that had planted itself against the wall, smearing oiled paint as it slid down. He'd have to clean that up later.

Kurosaki Ichigo was an aspiring artist—an artist who struggled with paranoid schizophrenia—

Picking up the small black stool that had fallen over, he set it back on its legs and lowered himself back onto it once more. Balancing his elbows on his thighs, he held his head in his hands.

—and he was utterly alone.

"Kuchiki-san, I must say: your essay on Japan's modern economy was splendid."

The ravenette turned around and smiled at her college professor. He had stopped her on her way out of the classroom. "Thank you, Ukitake-sensei," she bowed respectively.

"I'm sure your brother would be very proud of you indeed. I'll be sure to message him of your scores later," the white-haired man assured her with a truthful smile.

"Ah, um, thank you," Rukia said once more. "Sorry, sir, but I must be on my way…"

Her professor nodded and urged her on with a wave on his hand. "Alright. I'll see you next Monday."

Rukia nodded and turned, making her way out of the college campus. She was in her last year of college and was majoring in Japanese literature. She was the top of the class, and was already putting together a novel. She was quite famous in the literature department as it was. Rukia was thought to be one of the best writers of the generation.

Her brother was another matter entirely.

He was the CEO of Senbonzakura Inc., a famous publishing company. Being his younger sister, of course, she was always compared to him. It didn't get to her too much anymore. Rukia always held her head high and kept her self-confidence.

With a heavy sigh, she made her way down the sidewalk, passing stores with Halloween sales and houses with holiday-themed decorations. The scariest night of the year was coming up in just a few days. Rukia smiled to herself. She and Orihime planned on dressing up for the occasion.

A large gust of wind blew, lifting her skirt slightly and blowing through her short raven tresses. Rukia shivered and pulled her jacket closer to her body. Bumping into a sign as she did so, she blushed at the embarrassment, though no one had seen. Peering down, she read the large black text covering the white sign propped up on the pavement.

Free admission for all today at Ayasegawa Art Museum, in honor of International Art Day!

An arrow pointed to the white building on her right and Rukia pursed her lips in thought. Well, she had nothing else planned for the day, so why not? Walking up the steps, she entered the museum, smiling politely as a man with feather eyelashes handed her a guide and welcomed her.

She ventured out through the whitened hallways and walls, watching as children and adults admired the artwork. She stopped and saw all kinds of paintings and sculptures, tilting her head at the abstract ones. Rukia took a few pictures of the ones that were interesting, ones that she could possibly incorporate into her novel.

Her violet hues brightened, however, as she came to an abrupt stop in front of a painting of a white rabbit, perched in a wicker basket, its nose an adorable pink and expression simply adorable. Its ears were floppy as well, and Rukia just couldn't resist and raised her camera for a quick picture.

She paused however as a hand reached out from behind her and pointed at the sign stuck beneath the painting. Blinking, she read what was printed on the sign.

NO PHOTOGRAPHY ON THIS PAINTING, PLEASE. THANK YOU.

"O-Oh," she mumbled, blushing slightly in embarrassment for her mistake. The hand withdrew, and Rukia turned to view its owner. One thing was for sure, she'd never seen someone with such bright hair.

It was a young man, taller than her, of course. There wasn't any adult in the world shorter than Kuchiki Rukia, except her cousin Toshiro. His skin was a dulled peach hue, as if he once was tanned but was slowly losing color. Tangerine brows were pulled into a scowl, with his mouth turned downward to make a matching expression. His locks were a fiery orange with bangs that hung down into mocha eyes. He wore red tight-fitting jeans, held onto his waist by two black belts, along with a white short-sleeved button-up and a black pea coat that was unbuttoned.

A teenager had out-smarted her.

"Thanks, but I already knew that we weren't supposed to take a picture of this one," Rukia huffed, crossing her arms and glancing off to the side in confidence.

"Oh yeah?" the boy murmured. "Then, why were you positioning your camera like you were about to?"

Damn, this kid!

"B-Because I wanted to zoom in and see closer!" she defended.

"Liar,"

"If you got a problem with it, go look at something else, kid!"

"I'm not a kid. I'm twenty-one."

"Still a kid to me,"

"Like you're one to talk, short-stuff,"

Anger boiled in her stomach and shot straight to her brain. This bratty man would be the end of her. "I'm not short! I'm—"

"—fun-sized?" he finished for her, a hint of a smirk showing on his lips. Rukia shook her fist as if to hit the orangette, but quickly exhaled to calm herself to face the painting.

Ichigo wasn't sure what to make of this ravenette woman who was staring at the painting as if she wanted to cuddle it and take it home. He usually kept to himself in public places; he wasn't one to socialize at all. However, seeing the bright expression in those vivid violet orbs, he felt as though he had to do something to make those hues focus on him—only him.

And when she'd turned to fully face him, she was even more beautiful than mere words nor brushstrokes on canvas could describe or portray. The supple porcelain tone of her skin, the slightest tint of red on her cheeks when he'd put her on the spot, the short raven locks that perfectly enveloped her heart-shaped face—all of it was simply mesmerizing. Her eyes, however, were another matter.

Ichigo wanted to lose himself in those eyes.

A sharp gasp escaped the orange-haired male as goose bumps rose on his skin. He was here. That thing was here to invade his conscious once more. Echoic laughter sounded before that sickening, twisted voice was heard for a second time that day.

"King, I think tha' chick reminds me of lil' ol' Masaki, don't ya agree? Ha! Maybe she'll die too!"

Ichigo's teeth chattered.

"Maybe you'll kill 'er by yer own hands, eh?"

His stomach lurched and Ichigo wrapped his arms around his torso, his face pale. His knees shook and his teeth sunk into his lower lip to keep from grinding them together. His heart sped up to a dangerous speed. He felt as those words were going to swallow him whole, and god, he couldn't breathe. It was like he was out in the arctic with the smallest of lungs.

He felt as though he was drowning.

"Are you okay?"

That snapped him back into reality as a hand touched his arm. Fearful brown eyes locked with concerned purple and Ichigo immediately backed away from her touch. Rukia reached her hand back as though she was burned.

"Sorry. You just seemed like you were going to be sick. If you want, I can help you to the restroom," she suggested, watching as Ichigo regained his senses.

It seemed the voice was gone now. His hands were still shaking however. "I-I'm fine, thank you. I was just…," he couldn't think up an excuse.

"Don't worry about it." She had a feeling he was uncomfortable with the subject. "Um, can I at least know your name?"

The orangette straightened up. "I'm Kurosaki Ichigo."

Rukia gave a gentle smile and bowed. "I'm Kuchiki Rukia."

"It's nice to meet you."