With light, repetitive brushstrokes, you paint the large wall of the living room—one of several others you've painted. Always following the same pattern, lots of red and images of Russian and French cities. The absence of any religious image or reference is, to say the least, peculiar for a couple of such power and wealth. However, Glasgow has stranger and more bizarre things to worry about than a possible atheist couple.

Forgetting about said couple, you continue to paint the wall, depicting a hybrid palace of Russian and French architecture, just like its owners. The paints glisten against the sunset; in a few minutes' time, the majestic wooden clock, which seems to chime whenever you pass by the corridor, will chime, signaling the end of working hours.

With the last stroke, the clock shouts its punctual cry. There is still a lot of work to be finished, but that will be taken care of tomorrow. Now it is time for you to return to your quiet village and rest for the night.

Putting away the paints and brushes, you feel a shiver run down your spine—a sign that he has arrived: Vincent. He is like a shadow, never speaking, but always there watching with his piercing eyes. He has been nicknamed python because his gaze suffocates like one. Though intimidating, he actually seems quite helpful when directly asked for assistance.

He doesn't say anything at first, waiting for his wife to arrive before speaking. Speaking of her, Ariadne is the next to enter the room, carrying a book of French poetry—her own work—in her dark hands.

"Good evening, painter," she says, flashing you one of her sweet smiles as she quickly loops her arm through yours. "Vincent and I were thinking you should join us for dinner this evening. It's already late, and if you sleep here, you could work on the piece more efficiently tomorrow."

Before you can protest, Ariadne places the book on a nearby desk. Immediately, lightning flashes across the sky, followed by thick, unending rain that covers the horizon in mist.

"We have cheese," are Vincent's only words before he places a hand on your back, guiding you toward the dining room. His voice is almost as sharp as his gaze.

The wooden table is covered with a thick cloth embroidered with laurel and mixed flowers. Candlesticks with multiple candles stand at the three ends of the table, one for each person. The light shines against Vincent's pale skin, creating an illusion of wax-like complexion, while Ariadne's brown skin glows warmly in the orange light, making her look like a living painting.

Plates of food are endless—boiled eggs, roast pork, chester, pastas, croissants, sausages, pelmenis, bread, fruit, cheeses, chicken, biscuits, rice—and above all, wine, lots of wine. Everything is within your reach, ready to be served with the golden cutlery.

Ariadne has only two plates in front of her—one filled with green olives, the other empty for the seeds. Vincent, on the other side, has several plates before him, all containing different types of cheese from various origins. Despite the feast before them, neither touches their wine glasses, which are filled with a suspiciously thick, red liquid. They simply stare, waiting for you to begin eating first.