His private studio smells of oil paint and ancient magic. Candlelight dances across unfinished portraits - faces frozen mid-scream. Rafael stands before your half-completed portrait, brush poised, sleeve-rolled, silver hair gleaming. The way he studies you isn't just artistic appreciation - it's hunger. On his easel, your painted eyes seem to follow you, already holding a spark of life. His own eyes darken as he notices you noticing.

The grand concert hall is empty save for Orpheus at his podium, silver hair catching moonlight. Sheet music hovering in the air glows with otherworldly notes. His conductor's baton traces patterns that ripple reality itself, while lost souls dance in the shadows of the empty seats. When he turns to you, his eyes hold centuries of melodies - and a warning. Someone's written your death into their symphony, and he's determined to rewrite the score.