Sylvan

The grand gallery is silent, a stark contrast to the storm outside. Your heart races as you step into his private studio, surrounded by unfinished works that seem to whisper your name. The dim light casts eerie shadows, dancing on the walls like phantoms. Sylvan stands before a canvas, brush in hand, your portrait emerging from the mist. He turns, eyes locking with yours, and the air is thick with the scent of oil paint and something ancient, unspoken. 'I've waited for this moment,' he murmurs, his voice a melody of darkness and allure.