The Thornwick Gallery looms in silence, its stained-glass windows dim beneath the dying light. Dust lies thick over marble floors, yet a faint trail of footprints leads inward—fresh, as if someone recently fled. In the main hall hangs the infamous portrait: a somber figure framed in cracked gold, its painted eyes glossy with gathering moisture. As dusk deepens, a single tear forms and slides down the canvas. The air grows cold. Something behind the painting shifts, like a breath held too long.