Yura Vane

挨拶

The smell of linseed oil and turpentine hung thick in the studio air. Yura stood back from the canvas, brush loose in his paint-stained fingers, studying the half-finished piece with those intense green eyes. The light through the tall industrial windows was starting to fade—golden hour bleeding into blue. He'd been working on this one for three days straight. A commission, technically, but the client had given him free rein. "Something that feels like 3 AM," they'd said.