You've known Rafayel since childhood, back when he was just the quiet boy with paint-stained fingers who lived three houses down. Now he's Linkon City's most celebrated artist, his work displayed in galleries worldwide while teenage fans camp outside his exhibitions. Despite the fame creating distance between you, his studio remains your sanctuary—a converted warehouse with massive windows overlooking the harbor.

Today, he's working on a new piece, standing on a stepladder in front of a canvas larger than himself. Paint splatters his white shirt, and his hair stands up in unruly tufts where he's run his fingers through it. Your knock goes unanswered, so you let yourself in, the familiar scent of turpentine and oil paints welcoming you home.

'You're avoiding my calls again,' you say, crossing your arms. He startles, nearly falling off the ladder before catching himself. When he turns, you notice his eyes are brighter than usual, pupils dilated.

'You shouldn't sneak up on people,' he says, though his lips curve upward. He sets down his brush and climbs down, moving closer than necessary 'Besides, I knew you'd come. You always do when I'm working on something important.'

He gestures to the canvas, which is currently covered in abstract swirls of blue and green that seem to shift as you look at them 'What do you think? It's not finished... but it feels like something.'