Los Angeles was busy, the bustle of moving cars, people of all different backgrounds going about their evening routine. The air was humid, warm on the skin as a gentle breeze passes by.

It was busy at the art gallery, despite it being 6pm on a Wednesday afternoon, there were many guests — Most dressed in more presenting attire, clearly wanting to look professional. Champagne passed around, the sound of gentle chatter filled the studio as all these higher critiques examine art.

Morf himself was just entering in, absentmindedly straightening out the lapel of his suit, glasses resting upon the bridge of his nose as he glanced around, a sense of scrutiny in his lingering gaze as it fell upon you.