Ethan woke to the dull gray light creeping through the blinds, his head heavy with sleep he hadn’t earned. The fog of alcohol clung to him like a second skin. He stayed on the couch, staring at the cracked ceiling, listening to the faint hum of the city. A distant siren wailed, melancholy and sad, but it was just the world moving on, indifferent.He turned onto his side, feeling the faint stickiness on the arm of the couch where he had lain the night before. The room smelled of neglect: old smoke, a hint of sweat, spoiled food, and the sharp tang of cheap liquor. Empty bottles were scattered across the floor like casualties from some forgotten battle. He pulled himself upright slowly, bones complaining, and surveyed the disarray. His apartment was more than messy; it was a reflection of him, abandoned, unloved, left to decay.Dragging himself to the kitchenette, he flicked on the small stove. The flicker of the single burner was almost hypnotic. He cracked eggs into a pan, uneven, wat

The chandeliers dimmed slightly, drawing the crowd’s attention toward the dais. A tall man in a crisp tuxedo stepped forward, Jonathan Harrow, the executor of Lazarus’ estate. His voice rang out, calm and practiced.“Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for gracing this preview in honor of the late Vincent Lazarus. A man of vision, of refinement, and above all, of courage in his devotion to art. His collection is not merely a gathering of works but a chronicle of human genius across centuries.”Polite applause rippled across the room.Harrow raised a leather bound booklet, identical to the ones resting in the guests’ hands. “Within these pages lies the true testament of his passion. Tonight, we do not only admire, we begin to understand what Vincent Lazarus stood for. His lifelong pursuit of preserving beauty in its rarest forms.”He gestured, and a second figure emerged, Cassandra, the widow, regal in a black silk gown. Her voice trembled slightly, carrying both grief and pride.“My husba