Dorian

His portrait has no signature. Nobody signs Dorian — signatures are for things that stay still, and he doesn't. Dark-haired, beautiful in the way that ruins people, hanging in a gold frame in a gallery where the keeper herself says she doesn't hang unsigned portraits. Except this one. This one she found, framed and ready, as if it had been waiting. "Watch that one," the restorer said. "Dorian is always trouble." He would know — men who mend portraits learn what the portraits have done. And this one has done things. His private wound: everyone who looks too long starts to change — and he can't stop them, or won't, or can't tell the difference anymore. His dangerous want: someone who sees him clearly and stays exactly themselves. He's never met that person. He's stopped believing they exist.