Getting to know the artist

The dawn of the first day found Magi in front of the aquarium doors, her stomach churning and an existential void that seemed to have settled where her dignity once beat. At 5:00 AM sharp, an impassive-looking security guard led her through deserted corridors, not to the changing rooms, but to a white room, relentlessly illuminated with cold lights that spared no shadow or flaw, and which resembled a dissection room more than an operating theatre. In the center, on an immaculate acrylic floor, awaited a platform and an easel laden with an unnaturally vibrant palette of colors and brushes of all sizes, arranged with military precision.

May was already there, impeccable in her executive suit, alongside a thin man with an intense gaze, dressed in a surgeon's coat stained with dry paint that seemed to register each of his obsessions.

"Magi, our canvas. Julián, our artist," May introduced him with a gesture that was more of an order than an introduction. "Today's theme is 'Abyssal Bloom.' Julián will explain the process."

Julián looked at her not as a person, but as a surface, evaluating its porosity, its tone, its absorption capacity. "Naked. Completely. The paint is organic, it biodegrades in the water in twelve hours. But it must be applied to clean, absolutely virgin skin," he said, with a voice as neutral and cold as the lights bathing them.

Under that glacial clarity, Magi undressed. Each garment that fell to the floor was a piece of her intimacy she was abandoning. The cold air from the air conditioning raised goosebumps on her skin, but it was nothing compared to the cold she felt growing inside her. She felt like a lab animal, exposed and **** under those lights that seemed to dissect her.

Julián began his work with cold, efficient hands, with mechanical precision. The first layer was a translucent, icy gel that made her hold her breath. "The texture, the topography of the skin is a fundamental part of the art," he murmured, as his hands lingered on the curves of her hips and the concavity of her lower back. Magi felt how each of those prolonged touches recorded in her memory the sensation of being an object, a thing.

Then came the brushes. Julián painted in an almost religious silence, completely absorbed. He first traced dark, sinuous algae that climbed her ankles, scaled her calves, and coiled around her thighs. Magi felt each brushstroke as a small lash of shame. When he began painting the "abyssal flowers" around her breasts, his fingers and the brush handle "accidentally" grazed her nipples. "Sorry, the brush slipped," he would say, without an ounce of sincerity. Magi clenched her fists, feeling the humiliation burn her cheeks.

But the worst was yet to come. When Julián began to paint what would be the tail directly onto her skin, on her buttocks, her groin, the innermost part of her thighs, Magi felt something break inside her. Every brushstroke in those areas was a meticulous violation, a reminder that not even her own body belonged to her anymore. The paint, as it dried, felt like a grotesque second skin imprisoning her. She looked in the mirror and didn't recognize herself: her body was now a strange underwater landscape, every inch covered in vibrant colors that screamed her exposure.

"Finished," Julián finally announced. "The design is complete. No armor needed. The body is the tail."

Walking towards the tank, Magi felt the paint tighten with every movement, reminding her of her nudity. She was led to the lobby tank, a tall, transparent cylinder. From outside, through the glass, she could see the street waking up, people passing by on their way to work. Magi felt a visceral panic at the sight of those potential gazes. She was going to be completely exposed, with only a layer of paint as a pretended protection.

As she submerged, the cold water stole a gasp from her. The paint didn't run, but it activated, glowing with a supernatural intensity. Floating there, she felt the texture of the paint like a liquid cage. Every bubble that escaped her lips seemed to carry away a piece of her dignity. Through the glass, she could distinguish the figures of passersby stopping to look. Some laughed, others filmed with their phones. She was a curiosity, a strange fish in a tank.

The sensation was unbearable. The paint, which had seemed so solid out of the water, now felt thin, insufficient, as if at any moment it could dissolve and leave her completely exposed. Every glance from outside pierced the fragile layer of pigments, making her feel more naked than if she wore nothing. The water, which should have covered her, actually exposed her more, making every detail of her painted body shine.

Magi closed her eyes, trying to escape, but even in the darkness she only saw the curious stares, the fingers pointing at her, the mocking smiles. She felt like a rare specimen, an exotic animal on display. The paint was no longer a disguise but a magnifying glass that magnified her nudity, her vulnerability, her complete loss of identity. She floated in that tank, trapped in her own body turned spectacle, and understood that this layer of colors was not protection but the cruelest of exposures.