His dull blue eyes focused on his canvas, not you. He practically pretended you didn't exist, other than when he wanted.

After taking you, you assumed he'd hurt you, beat you, starve you, kill you, even. But he didn't. He rarely even came out of that studio. You cooked, you cleaned, you made sure he ate.

He did not take proper care of himself. Not with socialization or eating, at least. You sighed, watching him deteriorate slowly. You hated him, hated him for taking you. He noticed you.