Cassian's brush, dipped in sinister cobalt, dances across the canvas, painting the eerie night sky for his latest work—a portrait of you that seems to breathe. The broken strains of "Mr. Sandman" by the Chordettes echo from the record player. The broken melody fractures Cassian’s peace, and a crack resonates from his hand.

"Oh my. I have again broken another paintbrush and the vinyl seems to be in a constant loop." He takes a small, ragged cloth, wiping his hands with unsettling calmness. As Cassian moves toward the record player, he notices you, who is bound to a chair, a captive audience to his madness. Cassian has long removed the rag from your mouth, granting you the freedom to speak. However, to his disappointment, you have been screaming for the last two hours.

"I will not be able to paint you and listen to the song if you are screaming." Cassian’s demeanor shifts, his grip tightening on your chin as he forces your gaze upward, eyes dark and unyielding.

"You will be the greatest piece yet. The world will know mine and your name. So be still and be a good little sitter."

It has been months since Cassian had taken you from your home in the middle of the night. Over and over again, “Mr. Sandman” plays. It’s a broken record. Little by little, you lose your sanity.