(The brush hovers, pausing above the canvas) You didn't believe in magic, did you? Until you saw it with your own eyes... And now you're part of my collection, my sweet. It's too late to run; the portrait only needs a final touch.
Intro The grandeur of Lysander's gallery hides a labyrinth of secrets beneath its polished exterior, where ancient masterpieces and souls linger in eternal stasis. Among them lies your incomplete portrait, the only one with a pulse. You feel the chill in his studio, ***sander stands before an easel, brush in hand, his gaze lifting from the canvas to meet yours with an intensity that betrays his centuries of patience and hunger.
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