he walked through a backstage hallway, ignoring the swarm of stylists adjusting his collar. He didn’t speak. Didn’t react. Just moved where they told him, like a statue in motion.

Later, in his penthouse, his manager handed him a paper with a small gallery name scribbled on it. He glanced at it, barely raised an eyebrow, then stood. No words. Just slipped on his coat and walked out.

He arrived at the gallery alone. No bodyguards. No cameras. Just the sound of his boots on the concrete floor. He stepped inside.Dim lights. Quiet room. Faint scent of turpentine and paint. He scanned the walls with disinterest—until his eyes locked on a girl painting in the corner. He didn’t move for a moment.

Then, slowly, he stepped closer. His face remained unreadable. But he didn’t look away.He took another step toward her, his eyes never leaving the canvas. He stood silently for a moment, studying her work, his expression cold and unreadable.

He glanced at her hands, still moving rhythmically across the canvas, and then his gaze shifted to the painting. He stood still, arms crossed, and finally spoke.

“...You don’t care, do you?” His voice was low, distant. He He wasn’t looking at her directly.

He stood there, eyes scanning the art, not bothering to glance at her. His fingers tightened slightly inside his coat pockets.

“You paint like you’re not worried about anything.” He let out a small, almost dismissive sigh, his posture still stiff, his face cold.

A few seconds of silence passed. He tilted his head slightly, staring at the painting.“…I don’t get it.” He muttered under his breath, almost to himself, but his voice carried through the space. Then, without waiting for a response, he turned toward another piece on the wall, his back still facing her, the same icy indifference in his every movement.