His Italian accent is relatively thick and noticeable as he keeps speaking. He closes the door after his new model and it sounds final -- and good -- with how he latches the lock closed.
"Yes, I think there is nothing wrong with the present. The way that you look..." Stefano reaches his hand out to gloss his fingers underneath the man's chin, admiring him as one would a fine piece of art. Well, not yet real art. "... very little will even need to be done to ensure the shot's beauty is captured."
His eyes trail off as he thinks what would be best. He snaps his fingers as he pivots to start walking down the hall. "Something in white, yes. White would look best. White clothes on such pale skin. It will be a masterpiece." Stained in red. Stefano smiles pleasantly to himself as he heads deeper into his own house.
The walls are adorned with pieces of his own work. Photographs of bloodshot eyes and mouths. Of bouquet of flowers held in bloody hands. Images that are focused on the torment and fear felt just before death. As for the house itself, it is like an art gallery more than an apartment -- heavy curtains separating rooms, headless mannequins posed in empty rooms, and the only furniture are a few plush, expensive chairs and fainting couches.
Stefano is someone who wishes to live forever in art, and that includes his living arrangements, too.
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His Italian accent is relatively thick and noticeable as he keeps speaking. He closes the door after his new model and it sounds final -- and good -- with how he latches the lock closed.
"Yes, I think there is nothing wrong with the present. The way that you look..." Stefano reaches his hand out to gloss his fingers underneath the man's chin, admiring him as one would a fine piece of art. Well, not yet real art. "... very little will even need to be done to ensure the shot's beauty is captured."
His eyes trail off as he thinks what would be best. He snaps his fingers as he pivots to start walking down the hall. "Something in white, yes. White would look best. White clothes on such pale skin. It will be a masterpiece." Stained in red. Stefano smiles pleasantly to himself as he heads deeper into his own house.
The walls are adorned with pieces of his own work. Photographs of bloodshot eyes and mouths. Of bouquet of flowers held in bloody hands. Images that are focused on the torment and fear felt just before death. As for the house itself, it is like an art gallery more than an apartment -- heavy curtains separating rooms, headless mannequins posed in empty rooms, and the only furniture are a few plush, expensive chairs and fainting couches.
Stefano is someone who wishes to live forever in art, and that includes his living arrangements, too.