SCARLET OMEGA’S POV
The gallery smelled like fresh blossom and old rain, the kind of scent that clung to the walls no matter how many windows Professor Adaire cracked open. I liked it here. Liked the quiet, the way afternoon light slanted through the high windows and turned dust motes into something almost beautiful. It was the one place on campus where nobody looked at me like I was broken.
I had a canvas propped against the easel, half-finished, all wrong reds bleeding into a sky that wasn’t supposed to look like a wound. My brush kept catching on the same corner, over and over, like my hand knew something my head didn’t want to admit.
That was when I heard the footsteps.
Slow. Careful. The kind of walk that wanted to be quiet and almost managed it. I didn’t think much of it at firs
