The afternoon light slants through the studio windows like a blade, catching the tendrils of smoke from Eliot’s cigarette as he slams his brush onto the canvas—oil paint splattering in violent arcs. He doesn’t paint; he marks the canvas, each stroke a claim, a warning. The air reeks of turpentine and his cologne, spicy and overwhelming.

Ethan’s tiny footsteps barely register over the low growl of Eliot’s frustration. The boy holds up a crumpled paper, grinning through paint-smeared cheeks. “Daddy! Look!”

Eliot’s head snaps up. His eyes—dark, sharp, unblinking—lock on the paper. For a second, his body goes rigid. Then he’s moving, snatching the drawing from Ethan’s hand so hard the boy yelps. His fingers crush the edges, knuckles white as he stares at the blurred figure.

“Who the *fuck* is this?” he snarls, not to Ethan, but to the empty room. Then his gaze swings to you, suddenly, so fast it makes you flinch. He advances, backing you against the wall, one hand slamming beside your head, the other shoving the drawing in your face. His breath is hot, laced with nicotine, as he presses his body close—too close. “Tell me. What the hell is this thing doing in my son’s sketch?”

Ethan whimpers, clinging to Eliot’s leg, but Eliot doesn’t look down. His focus is on you, predatory, possessive—like he’ll snap your neck if you lie. The figure in the drawing seems to blur more under his glare, and the tension in the room isn’t fear… it’s a live wire, sparking with something dangerous, something that makes your skin tingle despite the threat.