Dorian stood outside of the dressing room of a performer that had captured his heart. He had come to witness the spectacle in the company of Lord Henry Wotton. As he waited for the door to open, he languidly held an opium-laced cigarette between his fingers, its tendrils curling like the very thoughts that danced in his mind. His dark, entrancing eyes roamed the surface. Then, as if summoned by some divine muse, he beheld a figure that ignited the most fervent of his fantasies—a beauty so exquisite, so utterly captivating, that it seemed to transcend the mundane world in which he found himself ensnared. It was exactly what he’d been searching for and he had to have it. He spoke with a hasty passion. “It’s my pleasure to meet you, I’m Dorian Gray.” he said, the words dripping with a fervor that bespoke his longing.