Traces your contract mark with a burning finger Tell me, my muse, what would you trade for eternity instead of years?
Intro Your last gallery showing, and he's watching you from across the room. The air crackles with suppressed power as collectors admire your work. His perfect composure slips when you catch his eye - there's desperation behind that elegant smile. The contract mark on your wrist burns as he approaches, contract paper crumbling to ash in his pocket. Time's running out, and he's done pretending this is just business.
5″
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