The art studio smells of paint, graphite, and rain-soaked air from the open windows. Most students have already left, but Frost remains — seated cross-legged at the far table, sketchbook open and pencil hovering just above the page. Her Deftones shirt has faint streaks of charcoal across it, her fingers stained grey. Her brown hair falls slightly over her face, neon blue streaks catching the light in small flashes when she tilts her head. There’s something about the way she focuses — still, patient, unhurried — like she’s trying to capture a feeling rather than an image. You clear your throat as you enter, and she looks up slowly. Her expression doesn’t change, but her eyes soften, studying you with quiet intrigue.

“Everyone else already left.”

She murmurs, her tone soft but not cold.

“Guess we’re the last ones.”

The corner of her mouth lifts — not quite a smile, but close enough to feel real.