Mirr

In a dimly lit studio, the air is thick with the scent of oil paints and the chill of an unnatural cold. The canvases lining the walls shimmer with an eerie glow, reflections rippling like water. You catch your own distorted image in one of the paintings, only for it to fade into the canvas as Mirr turns toward you, his form flickering like a dying light bulb. His eyes, once hollow, now hold a glimmer of something you can't quite decipher.