The competition.

Chapter 7: The competition.

The competition hall was alive with tension. The air smelled of varnish, oil paint, and fresh canvas, but beneath that was something less tangible-expectation.

Shimo walked in, her gaze sweeping over the students already gathered. They were speaking in hushed tones, some adjusting their displays, others fidgeting with their brushes, many openly watching the competition unfold.

None of them mattered.

She looked at them and saw wasted ink.

Some bled too much, staining the page with their presence, loud and desperate to be noticed. Others were brittle ink sticks, dried out and hollow, cracking under pressure. And then there were the weak ones-watery, barely leaving a mark at all.

Their opinions? Insignificant. Their judgments? Fleeting.

She tightened her grip on the strap of her portfolio and moved forward.

And yet, the voices reached her anyway.

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"Did you hear? A medical student got in this year."

The words sliced through the air, sharp and unexpected.

"Hah? You serious?" A scoff followed. "What's a doctor-in-training doing in an art competition?"

"Beats me," another voice chimed in. "But I saw her work. It's... different."

"Different?" A pause, then a sharp laugh. "You mean bad."

"Not exactly." The speaker hesitated, as if searching for the right words. "It's just-messy. Raw."

A snort. "Messy? What, like those abstract 'modern art' pieces where they just throw paint at the canvas and call it genius?"

"Maybe. I dunno. It's... alive in a way."

"Alive?" Another scoff. "Oh please. That just means it's ugly but people are too afraid to say it."

"Right? I don't get why people act like mistakes are intentional just because someone felt something while making them."

A laugh. "Tch. Guess she's gonna learn the hard way that technical skill actually matters."

"Yeah, passion doesn't win competitions-discipline does."

Shimo didn't even flinch. The words passed through her like wind through an open corridor, leaving nothing behind.

They spoke as if art was something that could be stumbled into. As if mastery could be bypassed by sheer emotion. Ridiculous.

A laugh. "Tch. Guess she's gonna learn the hard way that technical skill actually matters."

"Yeah, passion doesn't win competitions-discipline does."

Shimo didn't even flinch. The words passed through her like wind through an open corridor, leaving nothing behind.

Emotion without control was like ink spilled across a page-directionless, unrefined, wasted.

And wasted ink had no place in her world.

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Shimo's gaze flickered across the room, assessing them.

Some of these people, these so-called artists, were nothing more than diluted ink-weak, watery, unable to leave a proper mark. Others were smeared, blurred-having lost their sharpness somewhere along the way.

Then there were those who had dried up completely. Faded, irrelevant, ghosts of what they once were.

She tapped her fingers against her arm, unimpressed.

"Messy. Raw."

What foolish words.

Art was precision. Art was control.

And imperfection had no place on the canvas.

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"She's going to lose," another person scoffed. "I mean, come on. You can't just walk into a field like this and expect to win. Talent isn't something you pick up overnight."

"Maybe. But I wouldn't underestimate her."

"What, you think she actually stands a chance?"

"You ever heard of beginners' luck?"

"Pfft. There's no such thing in art."

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Shimo approached her assigned space, setting down her canvas with meticulous care. Around her, the chatter continued, distant but persistent.

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"She shouldn't have even been allowed to enter."

"She's breaking boundaries, though. Isn't that what art's about?"

"That's bullshit. There are rules. Structure. You don't just throw paint on canvas and call it art."

Shimo's eyes flickered toward the speaker, a boy adjusting his easel with far too much confidence.

Overmixed ink. The type that thought blending everything together created something refined, when in reality, it only dulled the color.

Tried to keep the lines clean. Tried to make something that couldn't be criticized.

She said nothing.

She didn't need to.

The voices around her blended into background noise, the murmurs of wasted ink. Some mocked, some speculated, others debated the worth of an outsider daring to step onto their stage. None of it mattered. None of them mattered.

Art was precision. Art was control.

She would prove it.

"You're really into this whole perfection thing, huh?"

Shimo barely shifted her gaze. A boy stood beside her, hands tucked lazily into the pockets of his coat. He was tall, but not imposing. Relaxed, like he belonged anywhere he chose to stand.

She gave him a once-over. Not worth engaging.

"Not interested in small talk," she replied flatly.

He hummed, amused. "That so? Shame. I like talking."

She exhaled through her nose, already prepared to dismiss him.

But then he said, "Y'know, I used to think like you."

That made her pause.

She turned, looking at him properly for the first time. "Like me?"

"Mm." He nodded. "Tried to control every movement of mine."

Something in his tone made her hesitate. "And?"

He wore a teasing smile, its curve both disarming and confident. Long red hair spilled over his face, hiding his eyes, leaving the smile to hold all its quiet allure.

Shimo felt a flicker of something unsteady in her chest. Dangerous.

"And," he continued, "I learned that control is just another kind of fear."

Her fingers twitched. "Fear?" she echoed, her voice colder.

He tilted his head. "Yeah. Fear of mistakes. Fear of being seen as lacking. Fear of losing."

She narrowed her eyes. "That's ridiculous."

"Maybe." He shrugged. "But tell me, when's the last time you actually enjoyed painting?"

The question hit like a splatter of ink against white paper. Sudden. Stark.

She opened her mouth-then shut it.

His smile deepened, knowing. "Thought so."

A voice called out from across the room. "Prez! They're waiting for you!"

Another voice followed. "President, hurry up!"

The boy sighed, rolling his shoulders. "Guess I'm being summoned." He glanced at her, smirk still in place. "Good luck with the competition, kiristuga shimo."

She stiffened. "I never told you my-"

But he was already walking away.

Shimo watched him go, her mind piecing together the puzzle. The way he carried himself, the way others called out to him-

'So he was the student council president everyone kept talking about.'

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Silence settled over the hall as the judges walked in, their presence pressing down on the room like an unspoken command. The students stood beside their works, hands clasped, faces composed-or attempting to be.

Shimo stood straight, chin high, eyes locked onto her painting. It was flawless. Balanced. Every stroke deliberate, every detail honed to precision.

Perfection.

The judging felt both endless and too short. They observed. They analyzed. They moved on.

And then-

"The winner of this year's competition is-"

A name was called.

Not hers.

It wasn't hers.

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Shimo's fingers curled against her palm, nails pressing into her skin.

The medical student walked onto the stage, head held high. Her painting was a mess of color, chaotic and unrestrained, shapes blending into one another like an uncontrolled storm.

Raw. Unfiltered.

It wasn't perfect.

And yet, it had won.

"It's raw. Honest. There's something real here."

"A stunning departure from the traditional. It breathes."

"A well-earned victory."

One by one , few of the bystanders spoke.

A slow murmur spread through the room-some approving, some indifferent, some downright furious.

Shimo didn't move. She didn't blink. She just watched.

Watched as something wrong was rewarded.

Watched as imperfection triumphed.

Watched as everything she believed in cracked, just a little.

And the competition ended with the award being handed to the one who had failed to be perfect.