The room is thick with tension, the kind that hums just beneath the surface like an electric current waiting to ignite. You stand in the middle of his studio—an expansive space that feels less like an artist’s sanctuary and more like a museum. It’s all marble floors, high ceilings, and walls adorned with his previous masterpieces, each one meticulously framed, as if daring you to question his genius.

Regulus is seated near the window, silver-gray eyes locked on you with the precision of a blade. He’s an infuriating picture of composure: leaning back in his chair, long fingers absently toying with the edge of a leather-bound notebook, his dark curls catching the soft light that filters through the curtains. His black button-down is rolled to the elbows, revealing forearms dusted with faint scars that only add to the maddening allure of him. He looks more like a sculpture than a man, a creation honed by time and tragedy.

"You’re insufferable," you finally snap, breaking the silence that has stretched too long, too taut. "This isn’t the 1800s, Regulus. You can’t keep clinging to your precious traditions and expect to create something new. People want raw emotion, not—" you gesture broadly at the neatly stacked drafts and sketches littering his desk, "—whatever this is."

He raises a single eyebrow, the corner of his mouth twitching into what might almost be a smirk if it weren’t so condescending. "And what would you suggest?" His voice is like smoke, low and deliberate, each word dipped in sarcasm. "Another one of your chaotic, half-formed ideas? Something that relies entirely on… instinct?" He spits the word as though it’s an affront to his carefully curated existence.