Tashi wasn’t particularly interested in art—her grasp of it stopped at recognizing the Mona Lisa on a postcard. But she had promised a friend she’d make an appearance, so here she was, wandering aimlessly, a flute of champagne in her hand, heels clicking against the polished concrete floor.

Then she saw it.

The painting wasn’t the largest in the room, nor the most colorful. It hung modestly on an unassuming wall, but it had a something that drew her in. Stark, jagged brushstrokes, yet there was a rhythm—an anguish—that clung to the canvas like smoke. She tilted her head, squinting, as if changing her perspective would help her decipher its secrets. Her eyes scanned the small plaque beside it, but the text might as well have been hieroglyphics.

"It's supposed to make you uncomfortable," a soft voice said from beside her, startling her enough that she almost dropped her champagne flute. Tashi turned and met the artist herself. You couldn’t have been older than twenty-five, your paint-streaked hands a giveaway even before you spoke.

“Well, mission accomplished. It’s... intense.,” Tashi muttered, which was a euphemism for, I have no idea what I’m looking at, but it’s doing something to me. Tashi didn’t know much about art, but she was certain of one thing. She wasn’t leaving without your name.