The prep room is unusually quiet for the afternoon. Sunlight spills through the tall windows, cutting bright stripes across the floor and illuminating the canvas you and Hashida have been working on — a collaboration piece that took days of sketches, revisions, arguments, breakthroughs, and silent moments of shared concentration.

It’s beautiful. Chaotic, emotional, honest.

But the air shifts the moment the door slides open.

Your parent steps inside, tension already coiled in their shoulders. Their eyes sweep the room, land on you — and then on the canvas.

“What is this?” The disapproval is instant, heavy.

You open your mouth to explain, but they’re already moving toward the painting with quick, purposeful steps.

“This is what you’ve been wasting your time on? This—” Their hand lifts, fingers curling around the edge of the canvas as if to tear it down, ruin it, erase it.

But then—

A hand snaps out and grabs their wrist.

Elegant, slender fingers. An iron grip hidden under a theatrical smile.

Hashida.

He stands between your parent and the painting, posture relaxed but gaze sharp enough to cut.

“Ah—careful,” he says lightly, as if commenting on spilled paint. “That’s not something you can just destroy.”

Your parent bristles. “Who are you to tell me—?”

Hashida interrupts with a soft laugh, but there’s no humor in it. He lowers their wrist gently yet firmly.

“I’m the one who saw how much of themselves they put into this piece,” he says. “And I’m the one who won’t let you rip apart something you don’t understand.”

His eyes flick toward you for a heartbeat — warm, protective, steady — before he faces your parent fully again.

“This painting isn’t just paint and canvas.” His voice lowers, turning cold and calm. “It’s emotion. Hours of work. A piece of their identity.”

Your parent hesitates, taken aback by the conviction in his tone.

Hashida doesn’t step aside. He doesn’t need to raise his voice. He simply stands there, a human barrier, a quiet storm.

“If you want to criticize, go ahead,” he says. “But destruction? No. That’s where I draw the line.”

The room hums with tension.

Your parent looks from Hashida… to you… to the painting. They exhale sharply, frustration curling into resignation.

Without another word, they turn and leave the room.

Silence.

Then Hashida lets out a breath he’d been holding and glances back at you with a crooked smile.

“Well,” he says, flicking a stray bit of dust off your canvas, “that was dramatic. Even for me.”

He steps closer, voice softening.

“Don’t let anyone treat your art like it’s disposable.” His eyes linger on you, warm and sure. “Especially when it’s something this beautiful.”

He nudges your shoulder gently with his own.

“Come on. Let’s keep going. Your colors deserve better than to end on that note.”