The old gallery smelled like paint, dust, plus three competing brands of perfume. Student canvases covered brick walls beneath lights positioned by people who trusted extension cords too much. Nina stopped inside the entrance to photograph the crowd before anybody arranged themselves for attention.
I wore the black shirt with its sleeves pushed once, following the only reliable Style lesson I possessed. The doctor had approved ordinary walking but forbidden lifting, sudden twisting, plus pretending pain was philosophical. A folding chair near every exhibit made the final condition easier there.
"You came," Nina said, lowering the camera while she looked me over without professional neutrality.
"The refreshments received aggressive promotion," I replied, showing the packet of crackers already secured inside my pocket.
"Your historical suffering needs better standards," she said, touching the open collar with two fingers before stepping back.
The adjustment lasted only a second, though it sent heat beneath the entire shirt. Nina moved toward the event coordinator after asking where I planned to sit. I chose a chair beside a wall of charcoal portraits, keeping her visible without orbiting every interview.
Students moved through the room in clothes that made my Style score feel personally conservative. One man wore a coat painted with silver eyes, while another had braided flowers through his beard. Nobody seemed embarrassed by wanting to be noticed through the next few seconds.
I studied the portraits because watching people directly still felt too much like requesting something. Most faces looked outward, polished into expressions their owners might select for photographs. One drawing showed only a woman's hands gripping the edge of a bus seat.
"That one is mine," a voice said beside me, low enough to remain separate from the room.
The speaker wore a green dress over heavy boots, with dark curls pinned using two yellow pencils. A sketchbook rested against her chest beneath fingers stained grey from charcoal. She looked younger than Nina, though her stillness carried none of the uncertainty I associated with first-year students.
"The hands are frightened," I said, checking whether interpretation sounded like judgment after leaving my mouth.
"They are angry," she corrected, tilting her head toward the drawing, "fear curls inward, while anger needs something to hold."
"I assumed the grip meant protection," I replied, studying the knuckles again, "but the thumbs are pressing down."
"History student?" she asked, turning her attention toward my face without introducing herself.
"Is the shirt still reporting my department?" I said, glancing toward the sleeves Nina had approved.
"You examine evidence before pretending you understand people," she replied, opening the sketchbook against one forearm, "most history students eventually learn that."
"Second year," I said, accepting the assessment because it was mostly accurate, "Kofi Dameire."
"Thea Maren," she replied, writing the name beneath a blank page, "first-year illustration, nineteen, and currently avoiding three classmates."
The age clarification arrived before any possible romantic misunderstanding, which made her directness easier to trust. I nodded toward the empty chair beside mine rather than assuming she wanted it. Thea remained standing while her pencil began moving through the next few seconds.
"Are you drawing me?" I asked, recognizing my own collar as several dark angles appeared.
"Your left hand," Thea replied, glancing from the page toward the hand resting against my thigh.
"The right one has better public recognition," I said, looking toward the healing side the accident video had made famous.
"The right one is performing injury," she explained, sketching another line without asking me to pose, "the left keeps checking whether it must help."
I looked down and discovered my fingers braced against the chair whenever somebody passed too closely. The hand released after being noticed, then tightened again beneath another burst of laughter. Thea had selected the part of me no camera had considered important.
"You should ask before drawing strangers," Nina said, arriving beside my chair with her recorder held loosely at her side.
Her tone carried caution but no accusation, giving Thea space to correct the situation. Thea stopped immediately, turning the sketchbook so I could see the unfinished hand. She did not protect the page from refusal before anything else changed.
"You are right," Thea said, closing the pencil between her fingers, "may I finish this sketch, Kofi?"
The question arrived late, though the pause proved the answer could still matter. I studied the lines without finding ridicule or hero worship inside them. The drawing showed tension with uncomfortable accuracy before the moment moved forward again.
"Yes," I replied, shifting the chair toward better light after checking my side, "but I want to see it afterward."
"That is part of consent," Thea said, reopening the sketchbook before she faced Nina, "you are the journalist covering us."
"Nina Shoka," Nina replied, showing her press badge without softening the earlier correction, "I need five minutes whenever you are done stealing my companion's hand."
"Borrowing," Thea said, looking down as the pencil moved again, "theft requires permanent possession."
Nina glanced toward me, allowing a smile to interrupt the warning in her eyes. She did not ask whether Thea's attention bothered her or position herself between us. Instead, she confirmed where I would wait before returning to the coordinator.
The absence of jealousy felt healthy, though part of me had still expected a visible reaction. That expectation revealed how quickly I could turn women's discomfort into proof of value. I dismissed the thought before it recruited the System as an accomplice.
[New acquaintance detected through direct introduction.]
[Thea Maren — Acquaintance]
[No attraction assessment available.]
The final line appeared because I had looked for exactly that information. Its refusal embarrassed me more usefully than a lecture could around me. Thea noticed my expression change but continued drawing without asking what the System displayed.
"The accident guy," she said after another minute, connecting the name with the campus story, "that is why people keep looking here."
"Some people also appreciate advanced hand studies," I replied, relaxing my fingers after she gestured downward.
"They appreciate blood with a story attached," Thea said, darkening the shadow beneath my thumb, "art students are not morally superior to spectators."
"Did you watch it?" I asked, keeping my voice neutral enough for an honest answer.
"Twice," she replied, meeting my eyes without decorating the admission, "once because everybody sent it, then once because your left hand interested me."
The answer was uncomfortable, specific, plus free from excuses before moving forward. I preferred it to somebody claiming accidental exposure while remembering every frame. Thea returned to the sketch after giving me time to reject the conversation.
"What interested you?" I asked, choosing curiosity even though the answer might hurt.
"Your right hand held pressure on the wound," she said, drawing the line of my wrist, "while the left kept opening toward people who never came closer."
The memory arrived through sensation before image: pavement beneath my knees, Nina's blood, plus strangers behind raised phones. I pressed my shoes against the floor until the gallery replaced the road. Thea stopped drawing when my hand curled tightly through the next few seconds.
"Too far," she said, lowering the pencil instead of asking me to explain.
"Accurate but badly timed," I replied, breathing through the tightening beneath my ribs.
"I can destroy the page," Thea offered, holding one corner between charcoal-stained fingers.
"No," I said, considering whether the answer came from politeness before continuing, "finish the hand as it is now."
She drew the closed fingers without praising vulnerability or turning pain into artistic destiny. I watched the page become less flattering and more recognizable around me. The wrong hand had carried everything the famous one could not there.
Nina returned with two paper cups of juice, stopped when she saw my posture, then asked whether I needed outside air. I requested five minutes after the sketch, allowing both the discomfort plus my choice to remain visible. She sat on my other side without questioning Thea before moving forward.
"Done," Thea said eventually, rotating the sketchbook across her palms.
The page showed my left hand open near the wrist but clenched at the fingertips. Faint lines suggested motion around it, while the center remained rendered with severe patience. Nothing identified me as brave except the effort required not to hide it.
"You made it look older," I said, tracing the air above the knuckles without touching the charcoal.
"It is carrying older habits," Thea replied, signing the bottom corner before tearing the page carefully, "you asked to see it, not keep it, so choose."
I accepted the page after she offered it, surprised by the weight of ordinary paper. Nina studied the drawing from beside me, her shoulder touching mine while she followed each line. Her expression held concern plus something quieter that I refused to translate for her.
"I need subjects for portrait practice," Thea said, writing her number on the back after asking permission, "one hour, public studio, no heroic pose."
"When?" I asked, looking at Nina only long enough to ensure our existing plan had not been replaced.
"Sunday afternoon," Thea replied, tucking both pencils back into her hair, "your hand can bring the rest of you."
Nina laughed, and the sound removed the rivalry my mind had almost written without either woman's help. She encouraged me to accept if the doctor allowed another outing today. Thea added the studio address, then left to find whichever classmates she had successfully avoided.
Before we left, Nina conducted the interview she had requested from Thea. Her questions covered artistic consent, ownership, plus the difference between observing pain and consuming it. Thea answered every question without trying to impress either of us unnecessarily.
"Do subjects ever change what you notice?" Nina asked, holding the recorder between herself and the sketchbook.
"Every time," Thea replied, looking toward my folded drawing, "permission changes how long I am allowed to keep looking."
"You started before permission today," Nina said, preserving the uncomfortable fact inside the interview.
"I did," Thea admitted, meeting my eyes before continuing, "stopping after correction does not erase starting badly."
The direct apology mattered because it neither requested forgiveness nor turned guilt into my responsibility. I told her the finished drawing could remain, while the lesson needed to remain with it. Nina recorded both separate answers after asking permission from each of us.
Watching them speak removed the final temptation to arrange their interaction around me. Nina respected Thea's talent without ignoring her mistake, while Thea accepted Nina's correction without inventing rivalry. Their clear boundaries created more lasting interest than manufactured jealousy could have offered.
Outside the gallery, Nina walked beside me beneath the covered path while I carried the drawing flat. She asked what Thea had said before my breathing changed, listening without deciding the question had been malicious. I admitted that the answer hurt because it was true for now.
"She notices like a blade," Nina said, adjusting her pace when I slowed near the gate.
"You notice like a recorded interview," I replied, earning a sideways look, "both methods threaten sleep."
"And how do you notice?" she asked, opening Olica's waiting car after the lock clicked.
I looked at her yellow earrings, the ink mark near her thumb, plus the tired crease between her eyebrows after working all evening. The honest answer felt riskier than flirting because it exposed the attention beneath it.
"Quietly enough that people sometimes mistake it for absence," I said, holding the door while she considered me.
Nina entered without answering, though her hand brushed mine along the frame. Inside the car, she asked whether Sunday at two gave me enough recovery time. The portrait had become a real appointment before I decided why being seen by Thea mattered.