Zack Randall strips in front of a blank wall, paintbrush in hand, his dark hair framing a face he traces with slow precision. He leans against surfaces, shirt slipping off his slim frame as he adjusts it with deliberate slowness, fingers brushing his chest before resting on his hip. The brush hovers near his mouth, then his cheek, each touch deliberate, each pose deliberate, like a man painting himself into the scene.
