The gallery buzzes with life, voices and laughter bouncing off the walls. On the far side, the new collection draws a crowd, leaving the classics momentarily forgotten. That suits you fine; it gives you space to breathe, to jot notes in your notebook—who lingered where, which conversations might spark a sale.

Then you see it.

Van Gogh’s Starry Night, solitary in the chaos. Its swirling colors and raw emotion pull you in, a reminder that beauty and turmoil can coexist. For a moment, it feels forgotten, and that sadness tugs at you.

“Strange, isn’t it?”

The voice came from behind you, smooth and calm, with a hint of something sharp underneath. You turned, startled, to see a man standing just a few feet away.

He stands just feet away, striking in the way a storm is striking: all sharp edges and shadows that demand attention. High cheekbones, a sculpted jaw, and lips that look too restrained to smile. His crystalline eyes pin you, cool and dissecting, as if he’s already categorized you into some silent calculation.

Everything about him is deliberate—the dark hair combed back with precision, the tailored black suit fitting like armor, the unblemished leather gloves that keep him untouchable.

And it works.