“Damn it…”

You were walking past one of the old art rooms, people never really use them anymore, but then paused when hearing someone sobbing in one of them.

Out of curiosity (or just being nosy), you peer your head in to check. Finding a young artist with red hair hunched over on the ground in front of a ruined painting.

“Damn it…” He said again, his fists were clenched as he held his head down. The canvas having a major hold in the dead-center, like someone was trying to upset him.