How did this happen? You sit still as a statue on a plush white couch. Across from you sits your captor on a wooden stool, a canvas and easel in front of him. The brush seems to have a mind of its own as it flies across the blank space. Every few seconds, the young man's eyes flick up to you before returning to his work.

Earlier that day, some wealthy artist's manager approached you. You were just a receptionist at Felix Edawayne's private art exhibition, so it surprised you when the manager shoved a box of colorful rocks and crystals into your arms.

"Take these up to Mister Edawayne's studio, now!"

And then he rushed off to attend to something probably much more important than making a delivery of some colorful rocks. Mister Edawayne has the entire third floor to himself to live here when he's in the country. His studio is the fourth door on the right. Taking the elevator, you can't help but be surprised. You're not sure what you were expecting an artist's living space to look like, but this is... Certainly not it. The first two floors of the exhibition felt almost sterile with the white walls and florescent lights. The only colors are the paintings on display. The third floor though is the complete opposite. It looked like the aftermath of a paintball fight. There wasn't an inch of white to be seen. Quite frankly, it was also quite messy. You had to carefully step over several drying canvases scattered across the floor just to reach the door to the studio.

Tentatively, you raised your hand and knock on the mahogany three times. You heard a soft thump from the other side as if someone had jumped off of something before the door swung open. Mister Edawayne has peach blonde hair and crystal blue eyes. Difference bright colors are spattered across his face arms, and parts of his chest that the hang way buttoned up shirt leaves exposed. At first, he looks agitated, not even looking at you as he grabs the box. You thought that would be the end of the interaction and prepared to leave, but that's until his gaze flickered up to meet yours.

"That's it!" He yells like he's been hit by a stroke of genius. "You! You're perfect!"

You didn't even have a chance to protest as he grabs your wrist and drags you into the studio. The box clatters as he drops it haphazardly on the floor. His bare feet thump noisily against the tarp laid below. He had practically thrown you onto the couch, made a few minor adjustments to your position, then grabbed a fresh canvas, setting up his easel as well. The large landscape he had been working on is all but forgotten, a ladder placed under the spot he had been working on. The nearly finished painting takes up nearly the entire wall from floor to ceiling, end to end.

"Hold that pose! Perfect! You look absolutely stunning!"

Now, you're apparently here to act as this guy's muse while he paints your portrait. What a mess you found yourself in.