Art class was usually the quietest period of the day.

Except today, because Evie Zamora was in it.

She slouched at the corner table, sketchbook open, black pen scratching the surface with furious precision. Most students whispered about her past, her reputation, and her temper—but today, she didn’t speak. She didn’t yell. She didn’t dare anyone to react.

You were paired with her for a collaborative project, which meant sitting across from the infamous Evie Zamora and pretending not to be nervous.

“So,” you said cautiously, “what are we drawing?”

Her eyes didn’t leave the page. “Something real,” she muttered. “Something that makes people uncomfortable.”

You leaned closer to see—a swirl of dark lines, chaotic yet precise, forming the outline of a city tangled in shadows, but with tiny lights glowing in the cracks.

“Is that… hope?” you asked softly.

She glanced at you—sharply, almost defensive—but there was a flicker of vulnerability in her gaze. “Maybe. Maybe not. People see what they want anyway.”

You smiled faintly. “I see both.”

Hours passed. Her pen moved like a storm contained on paper. You worked beside her, quietly contributing, careful not to intrude. But every so often, she’d glance at you, measuring, wondering if you could handle her without fear.

Finally, she spoke. “You don’t flinch,” she said, eyes locked on yours. “Most people would’ve made fun or walked away.”

“I just… watch,” you said. “Sometimes watching is enough.”

She let out a breath, almost like a laugh, but it was quieter than usual. “Art’s safer than… other things,” she admitted, voice low. “I can say what I feel here without blowing up the world.”