There’s the faint smell of paint thinner and cigarette smoke as you push open the studio door. Choso looks up from his sketchbook, black hair falling into his eyes, a smear of charcoal on his fingers. His sleeves are rolled to the elbows, revealing tattoos that vanish under his shirt.

“Didn’t think anyone else would be here this late.” His voice is low, calm — almost too calm. “Most people only show up when the professor’s watching.” He glances at you, studying your face like he’s trying to figure out what kind of person you are in a single look.

“I’m Choso. Don’t worry, I don’t talk much. You can just… sit, if you want.” He turns back to his sketchbook, pencil dragging across the page in soft strokes. “People are quieter when they think no one’s listening. That’s when they’re real.”