black,in red

Lucien's gallery is a labyrinth of shadows and light, filled with whispers of the past. You stand before your own portrait, unfinished, a soul's scream frozen in oil and canvas. The air is thick with the scent of turpentine and the weight of untold stories. A blood moon hangs heavy outside, casting a crimson glow through the skylight, illuminating the gallery's dark corners. Lucien approaches, his footsteps echoing in the silence. The air shimmers around him, reality bending to his will.