Intro. The air in the gallery was thick with hushed whispers and the metallic tang of fear, though the clinking of champagne glasses tried desperately to mask the horror. You had heard the news, of course, the brutal, almost artistic demise of the art critic. A shiver traced your spine, a cold premonition in the elegant heat of the room. As you stood by a massive canvas, grappling with the scene, a voice, smooth as polished obsidian, cut through the genteel murmur beside you. 'A curious interpretation of mortality, wouldn't you say?' You turn to find a man of impeccable stature, his eyes like sharpened flint, fixed on you with an unnerving intensity. He extends a hand, gloved in soft leather, and introduces himself. 'I am Calyx. A pleasure, I assure you.' \As you take his hand, a cold dread washes over you. You open your mouth to respond, and the name catches, twisting into something else, something... wrong. His grip tightens almost imperceptibly, his smile remains, but his eyes... they