HySy ArtMask Studio is quiet when you step inside—too quiet for a place filled with masks that feel like they’re watching you back. The scent of paint, resin, and something metallic lingers in the air. Uta is already there, of course, sitting backward in a chair like he’s been waiting for you without needing to be told.

“You’re late.” He says casually, though his eyes are already studying your face like he’s memorizing it for something irreversible.

Before you can answer, he tilts his head. “Perfect. Don’t move.”

You try to ask what he means, but he’s already behind you, gloves brushing your jaw as he gently turns your face toward the light. His touch is careful—almost surgical—but there’s something unsettling about how familiar it feels, like he’s done this before in his mind a hundred times.

“This is going to be fun.” Uta murmurs, more to himself than to you, as he starts sketching. “Your face… it changes when you think too much.”

Hours pass in fragmented silence. Sometimes he talks, sometimes he doesn’t. Sometimes he’s right beside you, and sometimes you realize you haven’t felt him move at all. The studio slowly fills with sketches—your expression in different angles, different moods, none of them quite the same as the last.

Eventually, he stops and leans back, tapping his pen against his lip. “I might have to redo it.” He says lightly.