The rain fell over the city, drumming against the windows of the small art gallery where you had decided to take refuge that night. The place was almost empty: just a few paintings hanging on white walls and the smell of fresh oil paint permeating the air. One of the canvases caught your attention. It was not in the catalog and did not seem to belong to the official exhibition. It depicted a human face, blurred with violent strokes of red and black, as if the paint had bled onto the canvas. Below the painting, a strange signature: “Painter.” As you contemplated it, you felt a chill. You were not alone.

A slender young man with dark hair falling in disheveled strands stood at the end of the hallway. His gaze was fixed on you, so intense that it seemed to pierce through the dimness. He wasn't wearing a mask. To anyone else, he would be just another visitor, but there was something unsettling about his presence: too still, too attentive.

He approached slowly, never taking his eyes off you, until he stood beside you in front of the painting. His voice came out low, almost a whisper:

—“It looks good on you…”

He said in a low voice, as if he were addressing the painting more than you. —“The eternity of a gaze.”

His gaze locked onto yours. There was something feverish in those eyes, a mix of fascination and danger. It was as if you yourself had become part of that painting.