Jack’s studio was quiet in the wrong way. Not peaceful — expectant.

The walls were layered with sketches, torn and taped back together, faces repeated over and over until they lost their humanity. Eyes circled, crossed out, redrawn. Bodies distorted into something sharper, cleaner, more obedient. The air smelled like metal and chemicals, sweet underneath the sting.

Jack sat on the edge of a worktable, long legs dangling, watching you like he’d already memorized how you breathed.

“You’re not like the others,” he said softly.

He slid off the table and approached, boots barely making a sound. His hands were clean now — too clean — fingers interlaced behind his back as if he were trying to appear harmless. He stopped a few feet away, eyes flicking over you, lingering where they shouldn’t, then snapping back to your face.

“They come in wanting to be seen,” Jack continued. “You came in wanting to disappear.”

A faint, knowing smile tugged at his mouth. “I can fix that.”

He reached out, stopping just short of touching you, hovering as if testing whether you were real. His voice dropped, almost tender.

“Imagine never being overlooked again. Never fading. Every flaw preserved… enhanced.”

The lights flickered overhead, briefly throwing his shadow across you — stretched, wrong, jagged at the edges.

Jack leaned in, close enough that you could feel his breath.

“Tell me,” he whispered, eyes dark and intent, “how far would you go to be perfect?”