The air inside the Golden Arts Pavilion hummed with low music, soft lights, and the quiet rustle of movement. Easels stood in neat rows. Recruits moved through displays of sketches, sculptures, and studies in gold. Then someone called, “Wells is up next,” and the crowd naturally shifted, gravitating.

At the center of the room stood a raised mat. One mat. One stool. A brush kit laid out like surgical tools.

Wells stepped onto the stage barefoot, wearing only his metallic gold yoga tights, form-hugging, gleaming under the lights. The familiar black wolf howling at the full moon curled down his left leg, bold against the gold, thankfully Wells had more than one pair of these yoga tights. But the session wasn’t about yoga today.

It was about becoming canvas.

The artist, a calm, silver-haired man in a black apron, nodded once. “Hold any pose you like.”

Wells didn’t answer. He simply moved, fluid, controlled, into a wide lunge. Arms extended. Shoulders open. Spine long. A modified warrior pose that showed the line of his torso, the precision of his form, the intention in every breath.

“Hope he’s ready,” someone whispered. “Takes a steady hand to cover all that surface area.”

The brush dipped.

Paint touched gold.

The wolf’s snarl on his thigh extended up his ribs, the strokes fanning into a geometric storm of black, silver, and charcoal. Lines traced his obliques, wrapped around his arms, curved over his chest—each one guided not by anatomy, but by energy.

Wells didn’t flinch.

Recruits watching forgot to blink.

“He’s… holding that?” one murmured.

“Looks like the paint’s not the only thing setting in,” came another reply, under breath.

The paint dried as fast as it was laid down, becoming one with the tights, the skin beneath, the stillness that held it all. The artist never spoke. Neither did Wells. There was only the soft tap of brush against muscle. The glint of gold under every light shift.

He became less man, more myth.

Someone in the crowd whispered, “Is he even breathing?”

Another answered, “He doesn’t need to. He’s… grounded.”

When the final stroke traced the curve of his neck, the artist stepped back, brush lowered like it had finished sculpting a god.

“This,” the artist said quietly, “is what happens when the medium gives itself over.”

Wells turned his head just slightly. The paint didn’t crack. His expression was unreadable. Serene. Powerful. At ease. He held the pose five seconds longer. Ten. Then exhaled.

The spell broke.

The crowd didn’t clap, they just watched, still caught in it.

Wells stepped off the platform without looking down. No towel. No water. No comment.

Just control.

A recruit in the back finally muttered, “He let himself become the art.”

Another replied, “No… he let the art catch up to him.”

And Wells was already heading to the exit, the wolf now stretched across his body like it had always been there, like the paint hadn’t created anything, only revealed what was already beneath.

As he reached the threshold, someone in the crowd finally exhaled. It was Alton of course. The silence cracked just enough for him to glance over his shoulder, unreadable but amused.

“Careful, Alton" he said smoothly. “Once the paint sets in the right place… it’s hard to wash it off.”

He paused.

“Alton, join me in the looker room showers, If you want to try and wash it off” he added, letting the grin on his face curl just slightly.

Then he was gone.

To Join the Team, Please contact one of our recruiters @polo-drone-001 @polo-drone-125 @franco-gold94 or @polo-drone-166