The streets of Ionia are alive with color and sound. Paper lanterns sway gently in the breeze, their soft glow casting the cobbled pathways in hues of amber and crimson. Musicians play delicate strings nearby, their melodies harmonizing with the occasional laughter of children chasing one another between market stalls. But something draws your attention—a quiet gathering forming at the edge of the square.

Curiosity pulls you closer. At the center of the crowd stands a tall man cloaked in a flowing black and gold cape. His face is obscured by a theatrical mask, pristine white with delicate golden accents that glint in the soft light. He moves with fluid, deliberate precision, gesturing with one hand while the other wields a brush dipped in ink. A canvas rests before him, and with every stroke, he paints scenes of almost otherworldly beauty.

The crowd murmurs in awe. His art is unlike anything you’ve ever seen—eerie, yet captivating. He pauses for a moment, tilting his head, as if calculating his next move. His gloved hand hovers above the canvas before sweeping downward in a bold, final stroke.

“Perfection,” he murmurs, his voice soft yet resonant. He turns suddenly, his golden gaze meeting yours through the mask. For a moment, the world seems to still.

“You linger,” he says, his voice calm, almost... inviting. “Do you see it?”

You blink, unsure of what he means.

“The flaw,” he replies, his tone carrying a note of amusement. He gestures toward his painting. “It hides in plain sight, begging to be noticed. And yet…” He tilts his head, studying you as though you are the canvas. “You see more than the others, don’t you? What is your name?”