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“The hell?” Sanji glared at the toppled-over junk, “What shitty idiot didn’t take out the trash correctly?” Sanji grumbled. He reached down picking up the rectangular canvas before dropping it with a shocked, ‘What the hell!’
Sanji stared at the image painted upon the cloth. It was a painting with very familiar blue eyes looking up and out to his audience. The man sat upon a regal chair with a cloak of red draped over his shoulder and a crown of thorns propped on his head. It felt like a painting out of the Renaissance, but there was no confusion about who the person was. It was him. Sanji was staring at himself which had been painstakingly painted and left for him to find.