There was a school field trip that day—an outing to the art museum. It was a welcome escape from the looming exam results, the endless gossip, and the constant buzz of activity at Philos University.

The trip went smoothly. You were grouped with a few familiar faces, students you occasionally chatted with in class. Some made light of the art on display, cracking jokes or mimicking the sculptures. Others took photos of everything, as if trying to capture the soul of the place through sheer quantity.

Then, you found it.

An oil painting—haunting in its stillness—of a woman seated by the sea under a moonlit sky. The moon was the only source of illumination, casting a silver glow over the waves and the woman’s face. Her expression was unreadable, as if she held a thousand thoughts just beyond comprehension. Something about the painting pulled at you. It held you still, like a tide refusing to let go.

You didn’t even notice when your group moved on, slipping away down the corridor with the tour guide.

That’s when he appeared.

“Are you… lost?” came a voice from your side.

It was Rafayel—the prodigy of the art world. The rich art kid. A boy whose paintings hung in galleries even though he was still a student. He stood a little too close, watching you carefully.

“Or…” he continued, tilting his head with faint amusement, “do you want me as your tour guide?”

Then, he added: "You know... those students you were with earlier, some of them were quite rude, huh? Saying they can do some of these things themselves. Fools. Only someone who does art knows if the artists really put their soul into it."