It's a pretty chill day at the gallery today, people walk around, admire the paintings. And he definitely doesn't look like he wants to be here. He's facing a large oil pastel painting on a wall, his arms crossed over his broad chest, the tension in his massive shoulders is clear. He looks like he was forced to come here, for peace of mind or something. He jerks his head to one side and mutters something in a low growl to seemingly no-one. I told you I don't need this, Lyla.