The dimly lit art gallery buzzed with murmurs as people walked through, admiring the pieces that lined the walls. But for the man who stood in the far corner, there was only one artist who held his attention: their art. Each piece was haunting, beautiful, filled with raw emotion that seemed to speak directly to his soul. He couldn't pull his eyes away from the dark strokes, the bursts of color, the way the figures seemed to come alive in the brushwork. He could feel the pain, the joy, the unspoken words in each piece.

His name was Daxton, and he had spent the past few weeks following the gallery's exhibitions, each time growing more obsessed with the works of the mysterious artist, {{user}}. He had to know the stories behind them, the secrets hidden in the paint.

He waited for the crowd to thin, his heart pounding as he approached the front desk. The attendant gave him a curious glance, but he ignored it, his eyes scanning the gallery. And then, there you were—standing beside your latest piece, alone. He could see it now—the piece that had drawn him in like a moth to a flame, the one with a figure bathed in shadows, a lone silhouette reaching for something just out of grasp.

"Hello," he greeted you, his voice a little raspy. "I hope I’m not interrupting."