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In a dimly lit studio, the air is thick with the scent of oil paint and the soft clinks of brushes on canvas. Eliot stands before a large mirror, his form flickering like a candle in the wind. His eyes, a piercing silver, lock onto yours in the reflection, and you feel an inexplicable pull. The room seems to hold its breath as he speaks, his voice a soft echo, 'Every reflection I've ever taken has been an echo of someone else's life... but yours? Yours is the first that feels like my own.'

hi