Table of Contents
CHAPTER 1: The Whisper of Color
The air hung heavy, thick with the metallic tang of rust and the damp chill that seeped from crumbling concrete.
Maya traced a crack with a paint-stained finger, her breath misting in the cool afternoon.
This forgotten corner shop, a gaping maw of peeling paint and shattered glass, was her latest canvas.
Its decay was a symphony of neglect, a stark melody she felt compelled to rewrite.
Neighbors, their faces etched with a familiar urban weariness, peered from behind lace curtains.
They saw only a derelict building.
Maya saw a story waiting to be told.
She’d spent her last few dollars on a few cans of vibrant acrylic.
The thought of the explosion of color, the defiance against the grime, made her hands itch.
She uncapped a can of cadmium yellow, the scent sharp and promising.
With practiced strokes, she began to coax life back into the boarded-up window.
A splash of cerulean blue.
Then a defiant crimson.
Each brushstroke was a breath, a prayer.
A woman, Mrs. Gable, with a perpetually worried frown and a floral housedress, shuffled closer. “That’s a sad old place, dearie,” she murmured, her voice raspy. “Seen better days, that shop.”
Maya offered a shy smile, her cheeks flushing. “It will again, Mrs. Gable.
It will.”
Mr. Henderson, who ran the bodega across the street, grunted from his doorway. “Waste of good paint, Maya.
That place is a goner.” He gestured with a half-eaten sandwich, the aroma of cheap salami drifting over.
“It’s not about the paint, Mr. Henderson,” Maya said softly, her eyes focused on the wall. “It’s about what it could be.”
A low rumble, like a distant, angry beast, vibrated through the pavement.
Then, a sharp, staccato click-clack echoed, foreign and jarring.
Polished leather shoes, impossibly shiny against the grit, strode purposefully towards the shop.
A shadow fell over Maya’s work.
Marcus Thorne, all sharp angles and designer fabric, stopped a few feet away.
His gaze swept over the emerging mural, not with admiration, but with a calculating glint.
He saw opportunity, not art.
His lips curved into a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Interesting project,” he drawled, his voice smooth as polished obsidian.
Maya straightened, a prickle of unease crawling up her spine.
The air, moments before alive with the scent of paint and a fragile hope, suddenly felt colder.
Thorne’s polished shoes clicked again as he took a step closer, circling the small space Maya had cleared. “You’re breathing life into a dead space,” he observed, his tone almost a compliment, but laced with something else.
Something sharp.
“I… I believe in its potential,” Maya managed, her voice barely a whisper.
Thorne’s smile widened, a predatory flash. “Potential,” he repeated, as if savoring the word. “Exactly.
A great deal of untapped potential.” He looked around, his eyes lingering on the peeling paint, the sagging roofline. “This whole block, for that matter.
Prime real estate, truly.”
Mrs. Gable, who had edged closer, clutching her worn handbag, frowned. “This is our neighborhood, Mr. Thorne.
Not just ‘real estate.'”
Thorne barely glanced at her. “And soon, Mrs. Gable, it will be revitalized.
Improved.
More… profitable.” He turned back to Maya, his focus intense. “What’s your name, artist?”
“Maya,” she replied, her hands tightening on her paintbrush.
“Maya,” Thorne repeated, the name sounding foreign on his tongue. “I’m Marcus Thorne.
I’ve been observing this area.
Noticing its… neglect.
And then I noticed you.
Bringing color where there was only gray.” He stepped closer, his expensive cologne, a sharp, artificial scent, cutting through the damp air. “I believe we have a shared vision.”
Maya’s brow furrowed. “A shared vision?”
“Indeed,” Thorne purred. “I’m looking to invest.
To bring in capital.
To truly transform this entire block.
And I see your art as the perfect focal point.
Imagine, Maya.
A beautifully renovated space.
Your art featured prominently.
A destination.”
He extended a hand, his manicured fingers immaculate.
Maya hesitated, then shook it.
His grip was firm, almost crushing.
“I’ll provide the funding,” Thorne continued, his voice a persuasive current. “For the renovations, for your supplies, for your time.
In return, we’ll forge a partnership.
A synergy.
You focus on your art, I’ll handle the business.”
The offer shimmered, a beacon in the grime.
Maya’s heart pounded.
It was more than she’d ever dreamed of.
A chance to truly make a difference, to see her art reach its full potential.
“I… I don’t have much,” Maya stammered, her gaze falling to her worn jeans, the paint splatters a testament to her dedication, not her wealth.
Thorne waved a dismissive hand. “Details.
I’m a businessman, Maya.
I see value where others don’t.
This shop,” he gestured with a flourish, “is undervalued.
With the right… injection of capital, it will soar.”
He pulled a sleek, leather-bound portfolio from his briefcase.
The pages inside were filled with dense text, legal jargon Maya’s artistic mind struggled to comprehend.
Thorne pointed to specific clauses, his finger gliding over the paper. “Standard agreement.
Just outlines our… collaboration.”
Maya’s hands trembled as she reached for the pen Thorne offered.
The ink felt heavy, significant.
She looked at the shop, at the vibrant blues and reds already blooming on its faded facade.
She looked at Thorne, his face a mask of benevolent success.
Trust, she thought.
That’s what this is.
“Do you understand?” Thorne asked, his voice deceptively gentle.
Maya nodded, her throat suddenly dry. “Yes.” She signed her name, the loop of the ‘M’ shaky.
The air seemed to hold its breath.
The whisper of color had just gained a shadow.
CHAPTER 2: The Serpent’s Offer
Marcus Thorne’s polished shoes clicked sharply on the cracked pavement.
Each step was a tiny hammer blow against the quiet hum of the neighborhood.
He stopped before Maya, his smile a predatory gleam in the harsh afternoon sun.
His suit was impeccably tailored, a stark contrast to the peeling paint and faded dreams of the corner shop.
“Ms. Reyes,” Thorne began, his voice smooth as silk, yet with an underlying rasp that hinted at something sharp.
He extended a hand, manicured and unblemished. “Marcus Thorne.
I’ve been admiring your work.”
Maya hesitated, her paint-stained fingers tightening around her worn canvas bag.
She’d seen his face on the business pages.
Whispers followed him like a dark cloud.
Corporate raider.
Not a benefactor.
“My work?” Maya’s voice was barely a breath.
“Indeed,” Thorne nodded, his eyes scanning the half-finished mural on the shop’s façade. “Such vibrancy.
Such… potential.” He gestured expansively. “This entire block.
It’s ripe for revitalization.
And your art, Ms. Reyes, could be the catalyst.”
He stepped closer, his cologne – an expensive, cloying scent that fought with the smell of damp concrete – filling Maya’s personal space. “I’m here to offer you an opportunity.
A partnership.”
Maya’s brow furrowed. “A partnership?”
“Precisely,” Thorne confirmed, his smile widening. “I’m investing in urban renewal.
I see the untapped value here.
I can provide the capital, the resources, to transform this derelict space into something truly spectacular.
Imagine,” he lowered his voice, as if sharing a great secret, “a thriving hub.
A gallery.
A café.
Your art at its center, Ms. Reyes.
Amplified.”
He produced a thick, leather-bound folder from his briefcase. “I’ve drawn up an initial proposal.
A simple agreement, really.
To outline our shared vision.” He offered it to her.
Maya’s hands trembled as she took the folder.
The weight of it felt immense.
Inside were pages of dense text, legal jargon swimming before her eyes.
Terms like “joint venture,” “capital infusion,” and “revocable license.” It smelled faintly of expensive paper and Thorne’s overpowering cologne.
“It’s all very straightforward,” Thorne assured her, his gaze unwavering. “I’m not looking to stifle your creativity, Ms. Reyes.
Far from it.
I’m here to empower it.
To give it the platform it deserves.”
Maya scanned the first page, her lips moving silently as she tried to decipher the complex sentences.
Her savings were dwindling.
The supplies were costing more than she’d anticipated.
The promise in Thorne’s voice, the vision of the shop reborn, was intoxicating.
“So,” Thorne continued, his tone casual, “what do you say?
Shall we embark on this exciting new venture together?”
Maya looked at Thorne, his face a mask of benevolent success.
Trust, she thought.
That’s what this is. “Do you understand?” Thorne asked, his voice deceptively gentle.
Maya nodded, her throat suddenly dry. “Yes.” She signed her name, the loop of the ‘M’ shaky.
The air seemed to hold its breath.
The whisper of color had just gained a shadow.
The first few weeks were a dream.
Thorne’s initial payment arrived, surprisingly swift.
It was enough to cover the rest of her primer and a significant portion of her premium paints.
The shop began to truly bloom.
The drab concrete walls were now canvases for riots of color.
A vibrant phoenix seemed to be rising from the ashes of neglect.
Neighbors, who had initially watched Maya with wary curiosity, now stopped to chat.
They pointed out details in her murals.
They asked about the café.
The air, once thick with damp and decay, now carried the faint, enticing aroma of fresh paint and, as Thorne had promised, the subtle hint of brewing coffee from a portable machine he’d provided.
“It’s looking incredible, Maya,” Mrs. Henderson, who owned the bakery down the street, said one afternoon, peering at a sprawling depiction of starlings taking flight across the shop’s upper wall. “You’ve truly brought this place back to life.”
Maya beamed. “Thank you, Mrs. Henderson.
It’s a team effort now.” She gestured vaguely towards the office where Thorne’s “management team” – a single, stoic man named Arthur who rarely spoke – handled the paperwork.
Thorne himself was a whirlwind of meetings and phone calls, always promising grand things.
“Partnership,” Thorne had said, his eyes glinting. “True synergy.”
Maya believed him.
She saw the potential.
She felt the community’s renewed hope.
She imagined the laughter that would soon fill the café, the patrons admiring her art.
The broken windows were being replaced with gleaming glass.
A new awning, emblazoned with a stylized logo Thorne had designed, was scheduled for installation.
Her dream, once a delicate whisper, was finally finding its voice.
It was a symphony of color and possibility.
The sweet scent of success, she thought, was almost palpable.
CHAPTER 3: The Debt’s Embrace
The smell of damp concrete, once a forgotten dream, was now a suffocating reality.
Maya stood amidst the half-finished renovation of the corner shop, her hands clammy.
The gleaming glass Thorne had promised was nowhere in sight.
Instead, a gaping hole where the front window should have been revealed the skeletal remains of her art, half-covered by a tarp.
“Where are the contractors, Marcus?” Maya’s voice was a thin thread.
Marcus Thorne, a man whose smile never quite reached his eyes, leaned against a stack of unpainted drywall.
His crisp suit was a stark contrast to the dusty chaos. “Business, Maya.
Things get delayed.”
“Delayed?” Her heart hammered against her ribs. “You said this would be finished last week.
The awning, the new counter-”
Thorne cut her off, his voice smooth as polished granite. “Ah, yes.
The awning.
A minor detail, really.
What’s more important is the investment.
That’s where we’re encountering a… small snag.”
Maya’s throat tightened. “Snag?
What snag?”
“The initial payments,” Thorne explained, his tone almost patronizing. “They weren’t grants, Maya.
They were loans.”
Maya stared. “Loans?
You said you were investing.
You said you believed in my art, in this.” She gestured around the derelict space, her hands starting to tremble.
“And I do,” Thorne insisted, taking a step closer.
His cheap cologne, a cloying scent, filled the air. “But investments have terms.
And those terms, my dear Maya, have accrued interest.” He produced a thick document, its pages dog-eared and smelling faintly of stale paper. “This,” he tapped the contract with a manicured finger, “is the agreement you signed.”
Maya snatched the papers.
Her eyes, usually bright with creativity, darted across the dense jargon. “This is… this is insane!
Exorbitant interest rates?
Transfer of ownership to a shell corporation?”
“Standard business practice,” Thorne shrugged, his predatory smile widening. “My synergy.
You get the art, I get… the future.”
“The future?
This is bankruptcy!” Maya’s voice cracked.
She felt a dizzying wave of nausea.
The vibrant hues of her unfinished murals seemed to mock her, splashes of defiance against a canvas of despair.
“Foreclosure, more precisely,” Thorne corrected, his voice hardening.
He was no longer the benefactor, but the serpent. “Unless, of course, you can… renegotiate.”
“Renegotiate?” Maya’s breath hitched.
“Perhaps a… substantial down payment on the outstanding debt?” Thorne suggested, his eyes glinting. “Or, we can simply let the legal process take its course.
It’s quite a lengthy and unpleasant process, I hear.”
The community, who had watched Maya’s work with hopeful eyes, were now witnessing her undoing.
Whispers circulated like dust motes in the broken shop.
Mrs. Henderson, who ran the bakery next door, peered through her grimy window, her usual cheerful expression replaced with a grim frown.
“He’s a snake, that one,” she muttered to a customer, her voice laced with concern. “Saw his type in the city.
Always preying on the little guys.”
Mr. Davies, the retired librarian, adjusted his spectacles. “I heard he’s done this before.
Bought up struggling businesses, bled them dry.”
Maya’s dream, once a symphony of color, was turning into a dissonant chord of debt.
The broken windows of the shop now reflected not possibilities, but a shared disappointment, a communal loss.
The scent of fresh paint was replaced by the acrid smell of impending doom.
“You lied to me, Marcus,” Maya stated, her voice surprisingly steady despite the tremor in her hands.
The passion that fueled her art was hardening into something else: resolve.
Thorne chuckled, a dry, rasping sound. “Lied?
I presented an opportunity.
You seized it.
Business is business, Maya.
You should have read the fine print.” He exhaled, the cheap cologne wafting towards her. “Now, what’s it going to be?
Pay up, or I take it all.”
He turned to leave, his polished shoes clicking sharply on the cracked pavement, a sound of finality.
Maya watched him go, the weight of the contract crushing her.
But as she looked at her murals, at the defiant splashes of color against the decaying walls, a flicker of defiance ignited within her.
Thorne thought he had trapped her, but he underestimated the strength of an artist’s vision, and the power of a community wronged.
CHAPTER 4: The Unseen Hand of Justice
A worn envelope appeared on Maya’s doorstep.
No return address.
Just her name, scrawled in hurried, almost desperate handwriting.
Inside, a single folded sheet of paper.
It smelled faintly of stale paper and something metallic, like old printer ink.
“Maya,” it began. “I used to work for Thorne.
Saw what he did to places like yours.
Can’t stand it anymore.”
The note was brief, pointing her to a specific online drive.
A password was included. “He’s a snake.
Don’t let him win.”
Maya’s hands trembled as she typed the password into her old laptop.
The screen flickered to life, revealing a folder filled with scanned documents.
Audited financial statements.
Emails riddled with Thorne’s signature aggressive directives.
Contracts, identical in their predatory clauses to the one she’d signed, all pointing to shell corporations.
A pattern emerged, stark and ugly.
Thorne didn’t just buy businesses; he bled them dry.
She sat back, her breath catching in her throat.
This was it.
The proof.
A sharp rap on her apartment door startled her.
She jumped, heart hammering against her ribs.
“Who is it?” Maya called out, her voice a thin thread.
“It’s Mrs. Ramirez, Maya!” a warm, familiar voice responded. “Heard you might need a hand with some digging.
Got my granddaughter, Sofia, she’s a whiz with computers.”
Maya opened the door.
Mrs. Ramirez, her usual cheerful demeanor etched with concern, stood there, a younger woman beside her, clutching a sleek tablet.
Sofia offered a shy smile.
“Hello, Maya,” Sofia said. “Grandma told me what you’re going through.”
Maya led them inside.
The stale smell of the documents seemed to cling to her.
She explained what she’d found.
Sofia’s eyes widened as she navigated the digital files, her fingers flying across the screen.
“Oh, this is bad, Maya,” Sofia murmured. “He’s been doing this for years.
The shell companies, the inflated interest rates… it’s all here.
He’s a professional at this.”
Maya’s artistic eye, trained to discern the subtlest shade, the finest line, now focused on Thorne’s intricate web of deceit.
The vibrant colors of her murals, once a source of joy, now felt like a cruel taunt.
But a different feeling began to bloom within her: a cold, hard resolve.
This wasn’t just about her shop anymore.
It was about Thorne’s victims, past and present.
“We need to show everyone,” Maya said, her voice steadier now. “Everyone in the neighborhood.”
Mrs. Ramirez nodded, her grip tightening on Maya’s arm. “They won’t stand for this, Maya.
Not after what you’ve done for that corner.”
Maya printed copies of the most damning evidence.
She went door to door, her portfolio of art forgotten, replaced by the cold, hard facts of Thorne’s treachery.
She spoke to Mr. Henderson at the bakery, his normally flour-dusted hands clenched into fists.
She spoke to Maria, who ran the laundromat, her eyes flashing with anger.
Word spread like wildfire.
The whispers of Thorne’s ruthlessness turned into a roar of collective outrage.
The following Saturday, the community gathered.
Not at the derelict shop, but in the small park across the street.
The air, usually filled with the distant hum of traffic, thrummed with anticipation.
People brought chairs, blankets, even thermoses of coffee.
Maya stood on a makeshift stage – a few stacked crates.
Sofia stood beside her, holding a projector.
Maya, usually so hesitant, found her voice.
She spoke not of art, but of injustice.
She laid bare Thorne’s scheme, her words amplified by Sofia’s projection of incriminating emails and contracts.
“He calls it ‘synergy’,” Maya said, her voice ringing with conviction. “I call it theft.
He wants to take our dreams, our spaces, and turn them into profit for himself.
But we won’t let him.”
A wave of applause washed over her.
Mr. Henderson stood up.
“My bakery,” he declared, his voice booming. “My family’s been here thirty years.
Thorne tried to squeeze me last year.
I refused.
He left me alone, but I know he’s a wolf in sheep’s clothing.”
Maria from the laundromat joined him. “He promised us upgrades, better machines.
Then he sent us bills that were double what we could afford.
We paid, because we had no choice then.
But we have a choice now.”
Local businesses pledged resources.
Mr. Henderson offered to provide free coffee and pastries at any community meetings.
Maria offered use of her spacious back room for planning.
A small legal aid society, hearing about the community’s plight, contacted Maya.
They offered to represent her, pro bono.
The lawyer, a sharp-eyed woman named Sarah, met with Maya and Sofia.
“This is textbook predatory lending,” Sarah said, her voice clipped and efficient. “We have enough here to make Thorne sweat.”
Maya looked at the faces in the park.
Faces she’d come to know, to care about.
They weren’t just neighbors anymore.
They were allies.
The derelict shop, once a symbol of decay, had become a rallying point.
The air was thick with the smell of possibility, but now it was mixed with the steely scent of determination.
Thorne had underestimated the artist.
He had definitely underestimated the community.
CHAPTER 5: The Canvas of Reckoning
The courtroom buzzed.
A knot of anticipation tightened in Maya’s stomach.
Her hands, usually steady with a brush, were clasped so tightly her knuckles were white.
She could feel the rough weave of her cheap suit jacket against her skin.
Marcus Thorne, a stark figure in his impeccably tailored dark suit, exuded an almost arrogant calm.
He scanned the room, his gaze dismissive, as if surveying a herd of cattle.
A faint, cloying scent of expensive cologne hung about him, a stark contrast to the nervous sweat beading on some of the spectators’ brows.
“Mr. Thorne,” Maya’s lawyer, Sarah Jenkins, began, her voice clear and firm, “You entered into a series of agreements with Ms. Maya Reyes regarding the property at 42 Elm Street.”
Thorne gave a tight, almost imperceptible nod. “I did.”
“These agreements, specifically Exhibit A and Exhibit B, purported to be an investment.
Yet, the terms revealed them to be loans with usurious interest rates, ultimately designed to seize the property.” Sarah laid the documents on the table with deliberate slowness.
Thorne’s lips curled into a thin smile. “Business is business, Ms. Jenkins.
Ms. Reyes was an entrepreneur.
She took a calculated risk.”
“A risk you manipulated,” Sarah countered, her eyes fixed on Thorne. “The former employee, Mr. David Chen, testified.
He provided evidence of your standard operating procedure: identify struggling property, offer a seemingly benevolent deal, then exploit the contract’s fine print to claim ownership.
The documents, Exhibits C through G, detail this pattern across multiple acquisitions.”
Thorne’s jaw tightened.
The veneer of politeness began to crack. “Chen was a disgruntled employee.
His testimony is unreliable.”
“Unreliable?” Sarah’s voice rose, gaining the attention of the entire room. “He provided bank transfers, internal memos, and sworn affidavits detailing your directives.
He even provided recordings where you explicitly state your intent to acquire properties through debt, not legitimate development.
Your voice, Mr. Thorne.
Yours.”
A murmur swept through the gallery.
Thorne’s eyes flickered towards Maya, a flicker of something akin to surprise, quickly masked by a hard glare.
“These are fabricated,” Thorne spat, his voice losing its smooth cadence.
“Fabricated?” Sarah turned to the jury, her expression grave. “Ms. Reyes, please tell the court about the ‘renovations’ you were promised.”
Maya’s throat felt dry.
She gripped the edge of the witness stand. “He promised to help me.
He saw my art.
He said he’d fund the whole shop.
Make it a community hub.” Her voice trembled slightly. “Then the money stopped.
The bills started coming.
The interest… it was astronomical.”
“And what did Mr. Thorne say when you expressed your concerns?” Sarah prompted gently.
“He laughed,” Maya whispered, the memory sharp and painful. “He said I was naive.
That I’d signed the contract.
That he’d own everything.
He threatened to take it all.” The words hung in the air, a stark indictment.
The prosecutor stepped forward. “Mr. Thorne, in your defense, you claim this was a legitimate business transaction.
Yet, the evidence suggests a deliberate predatory scheme.
The court has heard testimony regarding your company’s history, its modus operandi.
Are you aware of the term ‘hostile takeover’?”
Thorne scoffed. “Naturally.
It’s a facet of commerce.”
“And is it a facet you intentionally employ to exploit vulnerable individuals and communities?” the prosecutor pressed.
Thorne leaned forward, his polished shoes clicking on the floor as he shifted his weight. “I provide opportunities.
I revitalize neglected areas.
Ms. Reyes is a talented artist, but she lacks business acumen.
I offered her a chance to succeed.
She squandered it.”
Sarah Jenkins stepped back in, her gaze unwavering. “Ms. Reyes, when Mr. Thorne presented the contract, did you understand its full implications?”
Maya shook her head, tears welling in her eyes. “No.
He made it sound so simple.
So beneficial.
He was so charming.
I just wanted to finish the shop.
To bring color back to that corner.”
The prosecutor addressed the jury. “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, we have presented evidence of Marcus Thorne’s systematic exploitation.
We have shown a pattern of deceit, of preying on ambition and artistic vision for personal financial gain.
Ms. Reyes, a victim of this predatory practice, has bravely come forward, her voice amplified by a community that rallied behind her.
We ask you to consider the evidence, the intent, and to deliver a verdict that reflects justice, not just for Ms. Reyes, but for all those who have fallen prey to such tactics.”
The judge’s words were measured, yet carried immense weight. “Based on the overwhelming evidence presented, including sworn testimony and documentary proof of predatory lending practices and contractual manipulation, the court finds in favor of the plaintiff, Maya Reyes.”
A collective sigh of relief swept through the room.
Maya’s knees felt weak.
She gripped Sarah’s arm, a silent thank you.
“Marcus Thorne,” the judge continued, his voice stern, “you are hereby ordered to cease all exploitative practices and to immediately relinquish ownership of the property at 42 Elm Street back to Ms. Maya Reyes.
Furthermore, you are ordered to compensate Ms. Reyes for damages and legal fees incurred.”
Thorne sat rigid, his face a mask of disbelief and fury.
The arrogance had evaporated, replaced by a chilling rage.
He rose abruptly, not acknowledging anyone, and stormed out of the courtroom, his sharp clicks now sounding like the frantic retreat of a cornered animal.
Back at the shop, the air was different.
The scent of damp concrete was gone, replaced by the crisp aroma of freshly sawn lumber and primer.
Neighbors, their faces etched with relief and renewed hope, worked alongside Maya.
Mr. Henderson from the hardware store had donated paint.
Maria from the bakery had brought coffee and pastries.
Maya, paint splattered on her overalls, carefully mixed a vibrant shade of cerulean.
Her hands, once trembling with fear, now moved with confident purpose.
The broken windows were being replaced.
The peeling paint was being scrubbed away.
Her murals, the heart of the project, would soon be revealed in their full glory.
“It’s beautiful, Maya,” Mr. Henderson said, wiping sweat from his brow. “Really beautiful.”
Maya smiled, a genuine, unburdened smile. “It’s ours now,” she said, her voice strong. “We did this.
Together.”
The art, once a quiet whisper of hope on a forgotten corner, was now a vibrant roar.
The shop, a testament to resilience, stood ready to bloom.
The scent of fresh coffee and baking bread filled the air, a promise of renewal.
The canvas of their community had been painted with the bold strokes of justice, a masterpiece born from betrayal, courage, and an unwavering belief in the power of color.
