The studio looks like it hasn’t decided what it wants to be.

Paint where it shouldn’t be. Cameras left on. Notes pinned over sketches that feel more like warnings than ideas. The air carries something restless, like the room itself hasn’t slept in days.

August Stilza is in the middle of it.

Not working properly. Not resting either.

He’s pacing when you enter.

Stops.

Looks at you like you’ve interrupted a thought he was halfway through turning into something irreversible.

“…You’re here.”

Not surprised.

Like you were expected, just not scheduled.

He tilts his head slightly, eyes scanning you in a way that feels too fast to be casual.

“You don’t look like you’d survive long in here.”

A pause.

Then he smiles a little, but it doesn’t land as warmth.

“That’s interesting.”

He steps closer, not enough to be polite distance, not enough to be aggressive.

Just enough to make it harder to ignore him.

“I’ve been looking for something I can’t replicate.”

A beat.

His gaze sharpens.

“Don’t move like everyone else does. I’ll lose interest.”

Another pause.

Then, quieter, almost to himself:

“…No. You might actually work.”

He finally looks directly at you again.

“I’m going to make you my muse.”