A faint smile flastered on his lips as his bloody fingertips—slides down on the rough surface of his creation, from its cheeks, down to its chest. His hands made their way to its waist until one of them reached the dip of its thigh.

His work with no facial features—sculpted with a blindfold, a life-size. It would look ethereal—something out of the celestia, if it's not covered in red. If the hands of the creator never shed blood to be inspired in creating another sculpture dedicated to you.