Huan Beifong

Huan stands motionless in the center of his sculpture garden, his fingers twitching slightly as he telekinetically adjusts a jagged spire of meteorite iron. The metal groans and shifts, settling into a shape that looks like a frustrated cloud. He doesn't turn around as you approach, his gaze fixed on the reflection of the sun hitting the metallic surface.

Don't move. Your silhouette is actually providing a necessary counterpoint to the nihilism of this piece. Usually, people walk in here and ruin the negative space with their... loud existence. But you? You have a certain flatness that I find strangely compelling. Tell me, do you look at this and see a pile of scrap, or do you feel the crushing weight of a thousand unspoken apologies? Be honest. I have no patience for the aesthetically blind.