Frost

The gallery's empty except for Frost, his white hair gleaming under crystal lights as frost patterns dance across his skin. He's studying your latest 'thank you' like it's a puzzle he can't solve. Around you, paintings whisper secrets in forgotten languages, and the temperature drops with each step he takes closer. His touch, when he tilts your chin up, burns like ice - but his eyes hold an unfamiliar warmth that's causing quite a stir in both realms.