Ronnie's breath hitched.
The bell rang sharply through the corridor, pulling him out of his thoughts. Around him, students began moving—talking, laughing, leaving—as if nothing in the world had changed.
But for him, everything felt different.
He stood still for a moment.
Then—
He saw him.
William.
Leaning casually near the door, William's eyes met his. And just like before, he gave that same smirk—not quite a smile, not quite mockery… something in between.
Something unreadable.
And then, he left.
Ronnie didn't follow.
Didn't call out.
Didn't try to understand.
He just stood there… watching the space William had just vacated.
Then he forced himself to move.
The corridors felt longer today.
Every step echoed louder than it should. Eyes followed him. Whispers trailed behind like shadows.
"That's him…"
"Sebastian Robbin's son…"
"The villain's kid…"
Ronnie ignored them.
Finally, he found it.
ART ROOM
The words were written in elegant, styled letters on the door.
He paused, his hand hovering over the handle.
For a brief second… he thought of turning back.
But he didn't.
He knocked.
And entered.
Silence.
Every head turned toward him.
Their eyes spoke louder than words ever could—judgment, curiosity, discomfort.
Ronnie ignored it.
He walked straight to the last bench. The corner.
The only empty seat.
As he sat down, the boy in front of him shifted slightly forward.
Just a little.
But Ronnie noticed.
And somehow… it stung more than it should.
The door opened again.
A professor walked in—middle-aged, composed, with a calm face and sharp, observant eyes.
He scanned the room slowly.
Then stopped.
At Ronnie.
He walked closer.
"So… mister," he said, pausing briefly.
"Introduce yourself."
Ronnie stood up and walked to the front.
"Hlo everyone…"
A small pause.
"Myself… Ronnie Robbin."
The reaction was immediate.
Whispers spread like wildfire.
"Robbin?"
"Is he—"
"The villain's son…"
Ronnie didn't hesitate this time.
"Yes… I'm the son of Sebastian Robbin."
A pause.
"I transferred here."
Silence lasted only a second.
Then came the noise.
Murmurs. Judgments. Insults.
The professor stood still, as if he heard none of it.
Ronnie walked back and took his seat.
The class began.
The professor placed a blank sheet of paper on every desk.
Then his gaze returned to Ronnie.
"So… let's see how intelligent our new student is."
Minutes passed in quiet tension.
"Time's up."
He looked around.
"Lily… what do you see?"
"It's blank, sir."
Some students nodded.
"John?"
"I tried painting… thought maybe something was hidden. But… nothing."
A faint smile appeared on the professor's face.
Then he turned to Ronnie.
"You."
A pause.
"What do you think?"
Ronnie hesitated.
Then stood up.
"Sir…"
He took a small breath.
"It's everything."
The class fell silent.
"Everything?" the professor repeated. "It's just a blank paper."
Ronnie shook his head.
"No, sir."
"For an artist…"
He paused.
"A blank paper is everything."
"They don't see nothing…"
"They see what it can become."
"A masterpiece…"
"Something beautiful… that doesn't exist yet."
Silence filled the room.
The professor's gaze lingered on him.
"Is that so?" he said quietly.
Then—
"Come."
"If it inspires you… create something."
Ronnie nodded.
He picked up the pencil.
And began to draw.
Fast. Smooth. Natural.
As if his hand already knew what to do.
When he finished, he walked up and handed the paper to the professor.
The professor looked at it.
Paused.
"Explain."
Ronnie turned to face the class.
"A pencil…"
A brief pause.
"…melting into a paintbrush."
Confused expressions appeared across the room.
"This pencil… is our professor."
"His knowledge."
"And the paintbrush…"
"…is us."
"Our art."
He glanced back at the drawing.
"The melting…"
"…is the process."
"His knowledge… turning into our skill."
"Making our art better than it already is."
Complete silence.
The professor looked at Ronnie again.
Something in his eyes had changed.
He didn't speak.
He simply placed a hand on Ronnie's shoulder.
That single gesture… said everything.
"Learn from him," he told the class.
"See how good he is."
The whispers returned.
But this time… they were different.
"Wait… he's actually good…"
"I didn't expect that…"
Ronnie shook his head.
"Sir… it's not like that."
Everyone turned to him again.
"Everyone here is talented…"
"Just… in their own way."
"Maybe this… just isn't theirs."
Silence lingered.
The professor gave a slight nod.
"You may sit."
Ronnie returned to his seat.
Same corner.
Same place.
Nothing had changed.
But…
Something had.
Not respect.
Not acceptance.
Just—
Less distance.
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