The Gallery That Never Sleeps

Canvas Metropolis never truly went quiet.

Even at sunset, the city hummed — hover-trams gliding between towers, neon signs blinking in three languages, a wolfhound in a business suit arguing into his earpiece on the corner of Fifth and Palette Avenue.

Super Artist dropped from the sky and landed on the front steps of Solitude Art Gallery with a soft thud. The building was enormous — all polished steel and reinforced glass, shaped like a fortress but decorated like a dream. Giant murals stretched across its outer walls, each one painted by a different citizen of Canvas Metropolis.

He pushed open the heavy front door and stepped inside.

"Mr. Artist!" called a voice. A young red fox in a green curator's vest jogged toward him, tablet clutched to her chest. "I'm Fern. I've been waiting — there's something in Gallery Seven you really need to see."

She looked nervous. Not excited-nervous. Something else.

Two of a Kind

Fern — the young red fox in the green vest — led him down a wide corridor lined with paintings from floor to ceiling.

Gallery Seven was at the far end, behind a pair of heavy doors. Fern pushed them open and stepped aside.

Super Artist walked in.

And stopped.

On the far wall hung a painting — enormous, taller than a city bus stood on its end. And in it, painted in perfect detail, stood someone wearing a blue-and-black supersuit, a red cape, and blue sunglass goggles.

It looked exactly like him.

Not similar. Not inspired. Exactly.

Before he could say a word, the painted figure moved.

Its head turned. Slowly. Then its hand lifted and pressed against the inside of the canvas — like someone pressing through glass.

Fern made a sharp sound and stepped back.

Then the canvas split open like a door, and the figure stepped out — boots hitting the marble floor with a solid thunk.

It straightened up, looked right at Super Artist, and smiled.

"Finally," it said. "I've been waiting."