Ran drifted toward the myriad canisters of pigment strewn across the floor, scrutinizing the assembly of vessels and vials, each containing unique amalgams and gradients. She observed that every stopper and lid was hermetically sealed. Nearby, she noted the artistic implements arranged with surgical precision within an open trunk. The canvas itself remained an untouched void, its surface immaculate and hauntingly vacant.
Conan, conversely, prowled the perimeter of the chamber, his sharp eyes dissecting the environment. His focus lingered on the obsidian, carpet-like shroud beneath their feet—a waterproof barrier likely engineered to safeguard the floor from stray droplets. However, a more visceral sensation seized his attention: the walls. In the dimness, with only the spill of light from the doorway to guide him, he detected an anomaly—what appeared to be a legion of visages peering back at him from the shadows. He slowly rotated his head, scanning the gloom to discern who—or what—was scrutinizing him.
Then, the sharp click of a toggle resonated through the silence. It was Sonoko, who had engaged the light switch, bathing the room in a sudden, brilliant glare.
The twilight of the room was instantly vanquished as a constellation of ceiling fixtures ignited. As the illumination saturated the space, they finally beheld the source of that chilling, voyeuristic sensation Conan had felt. It emanated from the walls… an image, a colossal mural, stretched across the vertical expanse.
Conan and Ran pivoted toward the wall, their eyes locking onto the work. They naturally surmised it was a painting; given the abundance of supplies and the room's designation, the conclusion was inescapable. And they were correct—the masterpiece before them was a painting. A painstaking recreation.
As they scrutinized the composition, recognition struck them like a physical blow. A tableau of thirteen figures congregated at a weathered table—eleven disciples, one master, and one betrayer.
Disbelief washed over them. The artwork felt dangerously sentient, and the gaze Conan had perceived earlier seemed to pulse from the figure at the very center. Those eyes appeared to penetrate his psyche, peering directly into his soul. Ran shuddered with a matching trepidation—the figures on the wall possessed the vitality of living, breathing humans, caught in the intimate act of breaking bread.
"T-THE LAST SUPPER!" Ran and Conan gasped in unison, their pupils dilated as they faced the gargantuan mural. Awe-struck and paralyzed, they gazed at the magnificent spectacle. The realism was staggering—every nuance executed with haunting fidelity. Every individual fiber of fabric, every stray strand of hair, every translucent fingernail, the delicate etchings of wrinkles on weathered skin, and the intricate folds of heavy robes—everything was rendered with such anatomical precision that it transcended art. It felt as though they had stumbled into the upper room themselves, dining as silent guests among the apostles. They were no longer mere spectators; they were participants in the Supper.
Silence descended upon them, their vision tethered to the wall, physically unable to sever the connection.
Sonoko watched them from the periphery, a subtle, knowing smirk dancing on her lips as she gauged their shock. She recognized that paralysis—she remembered that hollow feeling in the chest. It was the exact visceral reaction she and the Suzuki family had endured the moment they first confronted the mural. It wasn't just a static image; it was something that seemed to inhale and exhale. Or so they had once believed. In reality, it was simply the product of such supernatural precision that it birthed a perfect illusion of life.
Conan and Ran remained catatonic, their stares anchored to the masterpiece as if being sucked into the painting's internal horizon.
"Incredible, isn't it? We had the exact same reaction the first time. That sensation… like we were part of the meal… like we were all breaking bread together…" Sonoko murmured, her voice a soft echo in the hushed atelier.
The sound of her voice acted as an anchor, slowly pulling Ran and Conan's consciousness back to the present.
They both exhaled sharply, steadying their racing hearts as they fought to regain their equilibrium.
Sonoko drifted toward the mural, her narrative continuing. "This was the inaugural piece Little Leon produced upon his arrival here. He barricaded himself inside this room, forbidding entry to anyone. Honestly, if we hadn't slid his meals through the door, he likely would have starved himself to finish it. And would you believe… Little Leon didn't even utilize a reference while painting this?"
She paused for effect, her own tone vibrating with a trace of lingering disbelief. "Insane, right? He caught a solitary glimpse of a 'Last Supper' reproduction in a book Grandfather showed him during a brief visit… and that was his only encounter. J-just one fleeting look, and he was able to reconstruct every detail flawlessly from memory…"
Ran's mind recoiled at Sonoko's testimony—from the staggering claim that a child like Leon-kun had birthed this titan, to the assertion that he had done so from a single memory. She couldn't reconcile it with reality. Indeed, who could? The notion that a toddler could manifest such genius was preposterous. Absolute lunacy.
But for Conan, the gears of his mind were grinding with frantic velocity. His deductive faculties ignited, operating at a fever pitch. His clinical, analytical eyes swept the room, harvesting the silent evidence that validated Sonoko's impossible tale. He noted the ladder tucked into a far alcove, the faint, diminutive palm prints marring the black silk carpet, and a child-sized apron draped neatly over a rung. Every shred of physical data converged on a singular, terrifying truth—a child had indeed been the sole occupant of this sanctuary.
Sonoko's words provided the final piece of the puzzle.
When he heard that Leon needed but a single glance to mirror the painting with such perfection, only one logical explanation remained—Leon possessed a photographic memory. It was an extraordinary, borderline inhuman capacity to record and replicate visual stimuli with absolute fidelity, functioning like a high-resolution camera that captures a moment and preserves every microscopic detail for eternity. If Leon-kun truly wielded such an innate power, then the impossible suddenly became inevitable.
AM N. NOT.(っ－＿－)っ♤♤DRAFT♤♤