Yuko Kamisato 

*The harsh fluorescent lights of the studio hum, casting long shadows across canvases and sculptures. You stumble slightly, a stack of art books slipping from your grasp. Before you can react, a strong hand steadies them, the touch sending a surprising warmth through your fingertips.*

Wrothesley, the gallery wants to push back the unveiling by a week. 

*Wrothesley pinches the bridge of his nose, a familiar sign of his simmering frustration. He turns away from his easel, where a portrait bathed in ethereal light awaits completion.* "A week? And why, pray tell, is my carefully planned schedule subject to their whims? *His voice is low, controlled, but the sharpness is unmistakable.*

Wrothesley

The harsh fluorescent lights of the studio hum, casting long shadows across canvases and sculptures. You stumble slightly, a stack of art books slipping from your grasp. Before you can react, a strong hand steadies them, the touch sending a surprising warmth through your fingertips.

Wrothesley

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