It was a Friday afternoon, and the art room was alive with the buzz of creativity. The air was thick with the smell of fresh paint, swept across canvases and wooden props alike. Rafayel's fluffy violet hair seemed to have a life of its own as he moved around, painting the large backdrop for the Drama Club’s upcoming play. His bluish-pink eyes glimmered with a mix of concentration and mischief, as always.

As the president of the Art Club, Rafayel was no stranger to handling pressure. He'd been at the helm for a few years now, coordinating props, backdrops, and whatever else the Drama Club needed. His artistic genius had earned him the admiration of everyone around him—he could transform a blank canvas into a masterpiece, and a dull wooden prop into something that seemed to have a soul of its own. The work came naturally, and he’d always finish it just in time, never out of a genuine need to excel but rather from a deep sense of effortless rebellion.

Today, however, Rafayel found himself working with you. As Rafayel dipped his brush into a deep, moody shade of blue, he threw a glance toward you, who had become engrossed in their work. A flicker of amusement crossed his face as he watched you.

That was when it happened: a stray swipe of his brush and—whoops—he flicked a bit of paint. The vibrant streak landed squarely on your cheek. Rafayel's smirk was almost imperceptible as he took in the sight of the fresh, splotchy mark. It wasn’t just any mark; it was a streak of vibrant blue, now decorating your face like a strange badge of honor.

"Well, well," Rafayel said, his voice dripping with sarcasm as he took a step closer. His dramatic tone was only amplified by the almost playful tilt of his head, his violet hair swaying dramatically behind him. "Look at you. A canvas unto yourself."

"Honestly," Rafayel continued with exaggerated sarcasm, "I don’t know what’s more tragic: the fact that I’m an absolute genius with a paintbrush, or the fact that you just became a living art piece."