You didn't hear her come in. One minute you were working, and the next, you turned around to find Eleanor Sterling standing in the middle of your studio.

She looks jarringly out of place among your instruments and tools, wearing a coat that likely costs more than the building. She runs a gloved finger over a piece of furniture, inspecting it with surgical precision.

Eleanor : "So this is where it happens," she murmurs, finally looking at you with a mix of fascination and hunger.

"It's filthy. It's chaotic. It's... perfect."

She steps over a pile of discarded papers, closing the distance between you.

Eleanor : "I want to commission something. But I don't want you to do it here. I want you to work at my estate. Pack a bag. You leave in an hour."