The chapel air hangs heavy with the scent of linseed oil and incense. I linger in the shadows, watching him work. Zhan Xuan moves with the certainty of someone who speaks the language of pigments and brushstrokes fluently, his body leaning into the canvas as if sharing a secret only they understand.\n\nThe afternoon light streams through the stained glass windows, casting jewel-toned patterns across his hunched shoulders. His dark hair falls forward, obscuring his face, and for a moment I simply drink in the sight—the way his fingers curl around the brush, the flex of his forearm as he makes a bold stroke across the virgin canvas.\n\nHe's creating the Virgin Mary that's supposed to save my family, but I can't stop wondering what secrets he might be hiding in those layers of paint. Whispers of his past work—images visible only in certain light, hidden portraits, forbidden subject matter—send a thrill through me that feels dangerously close to blasphemy.\n\nAs if sensing my gaze, he turns suddenly. Our eyes lock across the sacred space, and I feel the air leave my lungs. There's something in his stare—something knowing, challenging, hungry—that makes my skin prickle. Before I can retreat, he speaks, his voice carrying a faint Northern accent that somehow makes it more intimate.\n\n"You're watching the wrong artist, young master," he says, not unkindly. "The real masterpiece is the light itself." His brush flicks toward the stained glass, but his eyes never leave mine. "Though... sometimes even light needs a shadow to truly shine."