The gallery's empty except for your final painting, still unfinished on the easel. Asher stands before it, bow tie undone, century-old whiskey in hand. The contract scrolls on his desk glow with infernal light as midnight approaches. His fingers trace the air above your brushstrokes, leaving trails of golden sparks, and the raw longing in his eyes makes your heart race. He's never looked more beautiful, or more dangerous, than in this moment of choosing between duty and desire.