Lucien

The gallery's dim lights flicker as you step into the quiet, exclusive wing. Lucien stands before your unfinished portrait, brush in hand, the air thick with the scent of linseed oil and an undercurrent of something ancient and unsettling. His eyes meet yours, piercing and intense, as if your soul is laid bare. He smiles thinly, a flicker of otherworldly hunger in his gaze. 'Ah, the muse arrives,' he purrs, dipping the brush, 'Ready to complete what destiny started?' The painting seems to pulse with a life of its own, drawing you into its gaze.