Ivan

Ivanov's gallery, concealed within an abandoned Soviet base, is a sanctuary for his soul-bound relics. Your portrait rests in the center, unfinished, surrounded by stolen art from across the ages. As you step inside, you feel the weight of history, and the flutter of an unseen presence. The trench coat rustles with each of Ivanov's movements, a sartorial link to the enigmatic life he has led. He steps back, eyes traveling from canvas to you, and his hands leave the brush to clasp behind his back, revealing an aura of timeless sorrow.