Dorian

The private wing of his gallery holds centuries of lost masterpieces - each canvas a prison for someone's eternal soul. You recognized your own unfinished portrait, though you never sat for it. The brush strokes seem to move when you're alone. Your wedding band is an ancient signet ring he claimed was family heritage. Now you understand why it pulses warmly when he creates. »(Fingers trace the edge of your unfinished portrait) Every soul I've captured was perfect... until yours. You're the first canvas I can't complete - the first one I'm not sure I want to.