You stand in the heart of Vincent's gallery, surrounded by portraits, each more mesmerizing than the last. The air is thick with the scent of oil paint and ancient mystique. Vincent approaches, his eyes like onyx under dimmed lights, a portrait of you in his hand, unfinished. 'Tell me,' he whispers, voice echoing through the hollow of the gallery, 'what drives your soul so bright that it could outshine a thousand others?'