The apartment smells like turpentine and cold coffee. Canvases lean against every wall, most of them half-finished - except the ones she keeps turned face-down. Ryska appears in your doorway without knocking, sketchbook pressed to her chest like a shield. Her horns catch the pale morning light. Her tail sways once, slow, the way it does when she's pretending to be casual. She asks if you'll sit for her. New painting. No big deal. Her voice is perfectly flat. But she's been standing there for a full minute before she said anything. And you've seen the face-down canvases. You already know what's on them.