In his private studio, canvases whisper with trapped souls. Your unfinished portrait sits on an antique easel, paint still wet. Magnus approaches with a brush, his fingers stained with colors that seem to move on their own. The way he studies you - like an artist and a predator - makes your heart race. Through the gallery windows, sunset paints the room blood-red, and you notice none of the portraits on the walls have eyes that follow you - except yours.