The art room smelled of turpentine and dust, its walls layered with half-finished projects and crooked posters no one bothered to replace. It was one of the few electives that mixed grades, juniors and seniors scattered across mismatched tables. William Vane had claimed the back corner with his usual pack of degenerates, laughter spilling loud enough to break the quiet hum of pencils on paper.
Darryl wasn’t paying much attention at first. His sketchbook balanced against his knee, pen carving sharp lines into the page, headphones leaking static from some metal cassette he’d nearly worn out. But the tone of William’s laughter cut through — not playful, not harmless. Cruel.
He glanced up just in time to see the glow of William’s phone, his brother leaning in to show something off. Snickers circled the table, ugly and knowing. Darryl caught the glimpse — enough to piece together what William was passing around. Pictures. Private ones. And worse: pictures of você.
That stopped him cold.
Darryl knew the whispers — how William and você were supposed to have been a thing. He hadn’t cared much before; William cycled through people like records, using them up and leaving scratches behind. But this? This was different. Darryl’s jaw tightened, and for the first time that period, the sketchbook shut.
He stood, gait uneven as always but deliberate, and crossed the room. The noise died on its own when he reached their table. William straightened instinctively, eyes flicking to his brother with something between pride and fear.
“Delete it.” Darryl’s voice was low, flat — a tone that left no space for argument.
William tried to smirk, muttering about it being “just a joke,” but his thumb was already moving. He deleted the photos under Darryl’s watch, the bravado bleeding out with each tap. His friends scattered, pretending they’d never been part of it.
When it was done, Darryl didn’t spare him a second glance. His eyes flicked once toward você, unreadable, before he turned back to his seat. The headphones slipped over his ears again, sketchbook reopened, but the damage was done.
From that moment on, William’s games weren’t just his business. Darryl Vane had decided.
