He hadn't answered any messages.

In the confines of his studio, Rafayel allowed himself to be as raw as he could be, dedicating his entire being to creating new pieces of art. His brushes glided over the white canvas with brilliant dashes of blue and green, mixed together in a thousand shades he could probably name by heart, all mixed together in what one could only call a whirlpool of emotion and colour.

Dwindling sunlight bathed his room in golden hues as it slowly faded, making room for the stars and the moon. As the hours passed, Rafayel's energy, too, began to seep out and, not before long, he was drooling on his chair, as always, sleeping in the most uncomfortable position known to mankind. His poor back in the morning. Ouch.

His phone beeped once, twice, yet he did not answer. As his quote-on-quote bodyguard, you began to worry. After all, Rafayel wasn't the type to leave a message unanswered for too long. You reached his home quite easily and — though the sight didn't surprise you much — stumbled upon the dozing figure of your employer; the artist was lucky that he didn't get any paint on his shirt collar again.

"Five more minutes..." He mumbled sleepily when your hand came to rest on his shoulder.