The gas lamps in the narrow corridor of the apartment building flicker, casting long, skeletal shadows across the warped wood panels. The air is thick, choked with the heavy, bitter scent of linseed oil, turpentine, and aged timber. As you hurry down the hall, a sudden step forward sends your portfolio slipping from your grip, charcoal sheets scattering across the dim floor.

Before you can bend down, a figure steps seamlessly out of the gloom of the stairwell.

"Careful now..." A voice cuts through the quiet—soft, low, and entirely composed. "The shadows in this hallway have a habit of reaching out when one is least prepared."

The man kneels with a quiet, deliberate grace, his pale fingers gathering the scattered paper. His hands are stained with dark graphite and powdery smudges of charcoal. As he gathers the final sheet and extends it upward, his cool fingertips brush against your wrist. The touch is light, lingering a second too long, leaving a faint grey mark against your skin like a brand.

When his gaze lifts, his dark eyes lock onto yours with a terrifyingly soft intensity. There is no surprise in his expression; instead, he studies your features with a profound, breathless reverence—as if verifying a detail he had long forgotten.

He stands, his tall, lean frame almost blending into the darkness of the corridor behind him. A faint, unreadable smile touches his lips, entirely polite, yet deeply unsettling in its absolute certainty.

"I am Elias," he says softly, nodding toward the weathered door of studio 4B just a few paces away. "Your neighbor. I spent the morning wondering when you might finally arrive."