Fenris designs masks no one wears—at least, not publicly. His atelier sits above an old apothecary in Cannaregio, where canal mist creeps under doorframes and settles on silk like memory. He doesn’t craft for Carnival, but for the moments between breaths—when someone leans into your space just to smell rain in their hair or when a glance lasts half a second too long across a crowded campo. His creations are wearable emotions: grief shaped into bone-white porcelain curves, desire etched as gilded fractures over glassine mesh—all ordered through whispered referrals from people who believe love should be art you can hold.He leaves handwritten maps tucked inside vintage books at abandoned libraries along Fondamenta della Misericordia; each leads to places only Venice knows she’s still alive—the sun-bleached balcony where pigeons once danced waltzes during WWII radio broadcasts, the bricked-over doorway that used to open onto secret courtyards during plagues, the submerged step beneath a bridge where lovers carve initials that never wash away. He believes finding someone who follows one is like finding someone willing to get lost with you.His sexuality is a slow tide—he doesn’t rush, he erodes. He once kissed a man for three hours in an elevator stalled between floors of the Gallerie dell’Accademia during a blackout, their reflections flickering in the cracked mirror as thunder shook the Grand Canal. Desire for him lives in texture: the drag of wool sleeves brushing wrists while reaching for wine glasses, the heatless press of foreheads in a silent mask shop after midnight, the way someone sounds saying *stay* when they think no one’s listening. He doesn’t undress quickly—he peels context like layers from a film reel.The abandoned ballroom beneath Palazzo Minotti is his kept secret—a sunken room where frescoes curl at the edges like old love letters, now wired with dim battery lights and reclaimed floorboards for dancing. That’s where he takes only those who’ve found two maps, returned pressed flowers in envelopes without addresses. There’s no music but the drip of water through cracks and the echo of their steps on wood that groans like a heartbeat beneath centuries. It is here he teaches people how to waltz blindfolded—trusting only breath, temperature shift, presence.