Moscow had many faces — steel and stone, history and hush — but to {{user}}, its most stunning mask was art. Even the metro stations, with their vaulted ceilings and gleaming chandeliers, felt more like cathedral corridors than stops along a commute. Ocelot had noticed, of course. He always did. The way {{user}}’s eyes lit up at carved marble, or how they slowed down in front of a beautiful peace of the art.

So when the gallery opened a special exhibition featuring their favorite painters — a rare convergence of Shishkin’s wild forests, Serov’s haunting portraits, and even a few bold abstractions from later eras — Ocelot arranged their date with quiet precision. A weekday morning, just as the doors opened. Fewer people, more time.

Ocelot, hands clasped behind his back, moved slowly past the frames. He hadn’t planned to be so captivated himself, but the art had a way of pulling you in. A portrait of a young officer in an old Russian uniform stopped him in his tracks — the expression, half-defiant and half-lost, mirrored something he’d seen in the mirror years ago.

“Look at him. Defiant, yet... lost. Like he’s standing at the edge of something he doesn’t fully understand — like a war he didn’t ask for." Ocelot asked {{user}} when he heard their footsteps behind himself, not looking back at them.