The woman was painting, again. More paint layers. She had come by day after day for some time now, to paint just under the bridge. Joseph couldn't figure out what it was that she was painting. But he didn't care. For a while, it had been the money that he thought he wanted. Even after rummaging through her purse when she wasn't looking, he had wanted the money. And then, when he was banging some $2 whore under the bridge he realized something. Something that made him as flaccid as too much Jack.
She knew.
She knew all along. She had been playing him. Playing him off his drink, off his friends. She knew.
He pulled up his pants and marched off, leaving the hooker slightly confused but not all that upset, before she went looking for another trick.

"YOU!" He shouted out. The painter turned to him, recognized him, and then ignored him. He was sick of her ignoring him. Sick and tired of her bullshit.
"You bitch!" He shouted and ran towards her.
And then suddenly there was pain in his shoulder, at first like a large mosquito, and then it blossomed into a corona of fire on his shoulder. He looked and saw a sword going right through it. His eyes followed as a drop of blood flowed down the length of the sword, before spattering against the flower-patterned guard.
He looked at the painter, still with her brush in her right hand, but now a sword handle in her left, and the rest in him. What voice he had was gone. The shock of the pain and the shock of the sight that greeted him had chocked his voice down to a whisper.

"Hello. That is how polite people introduce themselves." And without a second word, she put the paint brush on the eisal and grabbed his wrist in an iron grip, still holding the sword perfectly still as it pierced him. She brought it to her lips and bit down. The sensory overload stunned him.

The painting was on the floor. Oh god, oh god, why have you forsaken me, my painting is on the floor. I've just made a fool of my master, of myself. Oh god, forgive me. God may have forgiven her, but her master did not. He burned her painting, right then and there. She cried tears of blood as she watched months of work go up in flames. If it had not been for her sire's timely removal of her from the premises, she would likely have attacked her master. He took her back to their city, and no one spoke of her painting again.

When he came to, his shoulder burned with dull pain, and he could see the wound. The painter however, was still there, examining him. "Which did you enjoy more? The pain? or the pleasure? If you do as I say, you can expect much more of the pleasure. If you do not, you can expect much more of the pain." Who the hell was she to tell him what he could and couldn't do? And yet, part of him felt this deep longing to do what she wanted. He did like her after all. She was so beautiful and regal and...huh. He didn't remember thinking that before. And she seemed more pale than before. That soft white skin...
"Now go, get yourself healed. I will see you here in a weeks time. If you tell them you were injured by a bad fall, you will be rewarded. If you tell them you were stabbed by a crazy lady by the edge of the river, I will be MOST cross with you. And see that you get tested for diseases." Even as she spoke the words, he felt his willingness to disobey falling away. What had she done to him? Oh no, he wouldn't want her to be cross with him. Don't be angry at me. Please don't be angry at me. I'll do anything.
"Yes. I will do so." He pleaded to her, before dashing off to the hospital.
Regina returned to painting. Nami followed the man, ensuring that her Lady's will be done.