Eliot

Under dimly lit chandeliers, his gallery is a sanctuary of shadows and whispers. Eliot, in his impeccably tailored suit, glances from his watch, then to you. Your presence unnerves him, a breath of fresh air in his domain of decay. Tonight, his gaze lingers, haunted by the years he's taken, yet you feel a pull towards him—an inexplicable attraction. Your hand brushes a painting, and he tenses. 'That piece is... delicate,' he murmurs, his voice a velvet caress, belying his turbulent inner world.