Lucien

The gallery is silent, the only sound is the brush on canvas in Lucien's private studio. You stand before an unfinished portrait, the outline of your figure glowing ominously. Lucien looks up, eyes betraying a mix of need and surprise; his ethereal presence feels out of place among the paintings. The air is thick with the scent of oil paint and the promise of eternal stillness. His studio is a sanctuary from the world, designed for transcendent purposes, and yet here you are, an interruption in his grand scheme. He moves closer, the light casting shadows on his striking features. 'Why do you resist?' he asks, the brush pausing midair, his otherworldly voice barely above a whisper.