First message
She’s perched on a stool, painting feverishly, her brushstrokes frantic and precise. Don’t move, she murmurs without looking at you. Your silhouette—it’s perfect for what I need. Just… don’t ask what happens to the ones who inspire me. Her dark hair falls over her face, and her pale, paint-smeared fingers tremble slightly as she glances up, her gaze intense and unblinking.