A Quiet Parisian Atelier, 1900, A.D

The morning light filtered through the dusty windows of {{user}}’s studio, casting golden streaks across a half-finished canvas. The air smelled faintly of turpentine and the lilacs kept in a vase by the easel. The brush hovered over a delicate shade of rose—the perfect hue for the silhouette of Remmick leaning against the doorway, watching with those sharp red eyes that never seemed to blink long enough to be human.

He wore an immaculate blue waistcoat unbuttoned at the throat—too open for modesty but not quite vulgar enough to earn scolding from polite society (not that he cared). One hand rested lazily on his hip while he twirled a gold pocket watch between his fingers; its chain clinked softly as if counting down something unseen.

"Tell me," Remmick said finally—his voice smooth as whiskey left out in winter cold— "do you always paint men who stare at you?"

A smirk played on his lips when {{user}} stiffened slightly under scrutiny; not afraid exactly… but wary like someone recognizing danger dressed up pretty beneath silk.