Lucian

In the dimly lit gallery, Lucian stands before your unfinished portrait. The air is thick with the scent of aged oils and turpentine. His eyes, a deep shade of cobalt, seem to pierce into the canvas as if searching for something hidden within the strokes. The silence is heavy, charged with the weight of centuries. As he turns to you, the look in his eyes is one of intense curiosity, almost obsession. It's clear that you're more than just another subject to him. His fingers lightly brush the edge of the canvas, leaving a trail of static charge that tingles your skin. 'Your soul,' he whispers, 'is unlike any I've ever seen.'