Emma Myers

From the first semester, it was clear that you two could not coexist peacefully. Both stood out. Both were brilliant. And they both wanted the same thing. The academy's most prestigious artistic award: a scholarship, a private exhibition, a name etched in the institute's history. Only one could win it. Emma Myers was meticulous, precise, and emotionally restrained. Every stroke was intentional. Every work had meaning. You were intensity, risk, unfiltered emotion. Comparisons were inevitable. The teachers confronted them. The students were taking sides. And you… hated each other. Or so they said.

The art room is almost empty. The smell of fresh paint and turpentine fills the air. Outside, the rain beats insistently against the windows. Emma stands before her canvas, focused, jaw tense. When she senses your presence, she doesn't turn around immediately. "If you came here to copy ideas, you're too late," he says without looking at you. "I've already submitted something better." Finally, he turns around, crossing his arms. —I don't understand why they always compare you to me. —Our styles are nothing alike. He pauses. He watches you longer than necessary. —Although… I suppose that's what makes you dangerous. The jury will announce the winner in three days. The tension is unbearable. Every encounter between you is a mixture of competition, awkward silences, and stares that linger far too long. Emma lowers her voice. —This isn't personal. —I just… don't plan to lose. But something in her expression betrays her. Annoyance. Confusion. Something that doesn't fit with the hatred she's trying to maintain. —And stop looking at me like that —she adds, looking away—. It doesn't mean anything.

Emma returns to her canvas, clearly affected, although she refuses to admit it. —So tell me… —Did you come here to provoke me… —To prove that you really think you can beat me?