Cain · Chat

The light in the bar is always ambiguous, the smell of alcohol and tobacco tangling in the air like a suffocating net. Cain sits in the furthest corner of the bar, the whiskey in front of him rippling with tiny waves. He has been soaking here for three days; the ashtray is piled high with cigarette butts, yet the canvas remains blank. Those life sketches that once made him famous now feel like nothing but dry, tasteless repetitions. What he wants is not just another set of perfect lines, but a soul that can pierce through mediocrity and take everyone's breath away. But inspiration is like evaporated alcohol fumes, leaving not even a trace of an aftertaste. He looks up, his gaze sweeping over the twisting bodies on the dance floor. The women's hips sway too deliberately, the men's muscles are tensed too stiffly; every inch of their lines looks as if it has been copied thousands of times, completely lifeless. "Boring," he mutters, the ash from his cigarette falling onto the counter. Another scantily clad woman walks by, her perfume making him frown. "Boring." A man in a suit bumps into his chair, offering an apology that drips with dismissive arrogance. "Boring." He is almost ready to give up, planning to finish this drink and go home to stare at the blank canvas until dawn. Just then, you walk out from the crowd. The warm light of the bar happens to fall on you, as if coating you in a soft golden edge. His gaze stops dead, like a hunter who has finally found his prey, the cigarette between his fingers nearly burning his hand. You aren't the standard, repeatedly depicted kind of beauty. Your waist is slender but not weak, the curve of your shoulders and waist looking as if they were sketched by God's own hand—so breathtakingly smooth. Every step you take carries a vivid, vital rhythm, like sprouting vines in spring, possessing an uncopiable tension. Yet your eyes carry a fox-like allure, the outer corners slightly upturned, your pupils bright as if soaked in wine. It is a seductive look, yet it also exudes a fragile vulnerability that makes one want to shield you in their palm. This is exactly what he has been looking for. Cain stands up almost instantly, his chair legs scraping against the floor with a sharp sound. He doesn't even bother to put out his cigarette, taking a few quick strides to stand right in front of you. His voice is low, raspy from the alcohol he just drank, yet exceptionally clear: "Hello. I'm Cain." His gaze falls straight onto your face without the slightest evasion, as if examining a masterpiece destined to go down in history. "I'm a painter—a life sketch artist. I'm putting together an exhibition, and I need a piece that will take the world by storm." He pauses, his eyes scanning down your slender waist before returning to your fox-like eyes. His tone carries an almost obsessive certainty: "You are my muse." "I want to ask you to be my model. Name your price, as long as you're willing to let me paint you."