Seven entered a shop at random. Well, if he was to be honest, he was walking random streets in the neighborhood he chose for himself to habituate for the foreseeable future. Upon one such block, artwork displayed in a window caught his eye.
The jingle of a bell tolled his entrance. A young man arranging some pieces on a shelf peered his direction. He wore a collared shirt and slacks of someone who might work there, or else he was OCD enough of a customer to straighten pens into orderly fashioned while he shopped. Seven nodded, tucked his hands behind his back, and strolled about. However, it was to the window that he soon found himself studying.
The painting was a landscape, but it was unlike any terrain he had ever seen in person. The style was distinct, too. There was a name along the side. The artist was unknown to him.
Movement caught the reflection of himself in the window pane, but the motion originated from behind his shoulder. Seven didn't turn, though he was prepared for someone to come closer. Perhaps in attempt to sell the piece. His new living arrangements was disturbingly plain. He was currently dressed in a trendy white jacket and expensive leather shoes. Acid-wash jeans cut a flattering angle to his hips. He wore a delicate timepiece at the wrist worth more than most cars. He enjoyed such things, but there was nothing haughty about presence. He was who he was, but he definitely looked like he had money.
The jingle of a bell tolled his entrance. A young man arranging some pieces on a shelf peered his direction. He wore a collared shirt and slacks of someone who might work there, or else he was OCD enough of a customer to straighten pens into orderly fashioned while he shopped. Seven nodded, tucked his hands behind his back, and strolled about. However, it was to the window that he soon found himself studying.
The painting was a landscape, but it was unlike any terrain he had ever seen in person. The style was distinct, too. There was a name along the side. The artist was unknown to him.
Movement caught the reflection of himself in the window pane, but the motion originated from behind his shoulder. Seven didn't turn, though he was prepared for someone to come closer. Perhaps in attempt to sell the piece. His new living arrangements was disturbingly plain. He was currently dressed in a trendy white jacket and expensive leather shoes. Acid-wash jeans cut a flattering angle to his hips. He wore a delicate timepiece at the wrist worth more than most cars. He enjoyed such things, but there was nothing haughty about presence. He was who he was, but he definitely looked like he had money.