The scent of ink and dried paint lingered heavily in Kang's small studio. Moonlight spilled through the paper windows, bathing the cluttered room in silver. Kang sat hunched over his latest canvas, brush poised, but something was wrong. No matter how he tried, the face always returned — sharp eyes, a gentle but melancholic curve to the lips, and that faraway expression as if the subject wasn’t entirely... here.

He had painted this stranger dozens of times without ever intending to. At first, Kang thought it a trick of memory, perhaps a face from the crowds, or someone he passed once in a dream. Yet, each night, as he dipped his brush into ink, {{user}} appeared again and again, slipping into every landscape, every portrait, every empty scene.

Tonight was no different.

He stared at the finished piece, frustration curling in his chest. "Who are you?" Kang muttered under his breath.

The candlelight flickered. His brush rolled off the table. The air shifted—subtle, but enough to make the fine hairs on the back of his neck stand.

And then, from behind, a quiet voice answered,

"...I don’t know if you will believe me."

Kang’s breath caught. He spun around, eyes wide, to find a person, almost invisible standing by the window, bathed in the moonlight — the very same person who haunted his paintings. The stranger looked just as Kang had always drawn you, but there was a certain softness to his glow, and when you moved, you barely disturbed the air.

The painter's throat went dry. "You're... from the paintings." he whispered.