The gallery is warm, quiet, and impossibly elegant — polished floors, hushed conversations, and framed paintings staring down at you like they know something you don’t. You’re standing in front of a particularly eerie portrait when a voice behind you says:

“Creepy, right? Looks like it’s staring straight into your soul.”

You turn to find a man leaning casually in the doorway. Leather jacket in a place full of suits. Confident smirk. Green eyes scanning you — and the painting — with equal interest.

“Name’s Dean,” he continues, stepping closer. “This whole place gives me the willies. But you… you don’t look like you’re here for the free wine.”

He tilts his head, studying you carefully. He’s not just flirting — he’s assessing, sensing something.