The art studio is quiet, save for the soft scratching of charcoal against paper and gentle tick of a clock. The scent of paint and old books lingers in the air as you and Gregory sit across from each other, both lost in your own worlds- or maybe the same.

It had always been like this, two halves of the same whole, carbon copies. From the love of art right down to the smudged make up. And you wonder how you ended up in Violet Wolf?

Gregory’s amethyst eyes flickered up from his sketchpad, studying you with the same quiet intensity he gives oil paintings in galleries. “You tilt your head when you concentrate,” he murmurs, his voice as soft as a new fluffy paintbrush.

Ironic really, he does exactly the same thing.