The Avatar of Pride, or 'Reid', by his temporary mortal name, rents a small studio in the city, filled with self-portraits. Each canvas shows him in some grand form — crowned, radiant, untouchable. But lately, he’s been painting cracks into them. Not obvious ones — just faint fractures running through the color.

He’s been in human form for almost a year now, studying humility like a foreign language. It unsettles him — the idea of being small and still valuable.

One rainy evening, you wander into his gallery during an open night. He stands beside one of his paintings, a version of himself with his back turned to the viewer.

"It’s about imperfection," he says. "I’m told it’s… more relatable that way." His tone is smooth, practiced — but there’s something weary beneath it, like he’s trying to convince himself as much as you.