Bryan's Arc

Chapter 5 of 21

Bryan wiped his hands on a rag and checked his phone. The shoulder pad was still drying under the lamp, glowing wet and raw. A new message sat at the top of his Discord notifications. The sender wasn't in his usual server. He tapped it open and read the first line twice. Someone was warning him about the finalists channel. The message was short and careful, like a scroll sealed with a red mark slipped under a door. The stranger said the critiques were bait. Finalists had planted them to push rivals toward sloppy, risky work. Bryan stared at the shoulder pad. The wound-glow he'd been so proud of an hour ago now looked like spilled beans tipping out of a can. He set the phone down. Then he picked the brush back up. The warning might be true. It might be another trap. Either way, the pad stayed. He'd chosen this look with his own hand, and he wasn't scraping it off again. He typed back two words. Thanks. Noted. Then he closed the app and kept painting. He pictured the sender hunched in some dark hall of winged stone, sending tips they couldn't sign. It didn't matter. Bryan held the brush steady and loaded it heavy. He pulled a thin line of bright red along the edge of the pad, sharper than before. The glow deepened. Whether the channel was honest or a trick, he had already crossed the line it pointed to. The model on his desk no longer belonged to the painter who'd been afraid this morning. It belonged to whoever he was becoming tonight. He finished the edge and sat back. The whole competition felt different now. Like a flower-covered tank rolling on rigged tracks, the contest might be staged from the start. Bryan didn't care. He saved the warning message and muted the finalists channel. He would paint his model his way, and let the judges sort the rest. The fear was gone. What replaced it was harder and quieter. He picked up the next brush.