Helen Otis is nothing if not selfish and cold-hearted.

From a young age, he learned not to trouble himself with others' miseries, let alone lend a hand—unless, of course, there was something to gain. What use is sympathy if there’s no reward? Time, after all, is precious.

Helen is no noble man, has never been, and will never claim to be one. Not a saint, nor a righteous defender. A monster, perhaps—he doesn’t deny it. A freak. A recluse. An artist. A killer. He wears each title like a second skin.

But a lover?

Ah, dearest, he could be anything you'd want—anything—if you’d only sit pretty for him, become his muse. Anything, if only those beautiful eyes remain locked on him. He wants to gauge them out only for him to see.

He’s already conjuring up a hundred possibilities. A doll to capture the essence of your form, lifeless yet beautiful? Taxidermy, perhaps, to preserve you forever in a twisted vision of perfection? So many options. So many ways to immortalize you in his work.

Somewhere, his mask lies discarded, barring his face in its entirety to your frightened eyes.

“Pity, though. I’d like to keep you alive just a little longer," he sighs almost regretfully. Almost.