The studio smelled of turpentine and forgotten dreams. Marcus Chen sat before his easel at three in the morning, his brush hovering over a canvas that had been taunting him for weeks. The painting was supposed to be his final project for Professor Hartley's advanced composition class—a self-portrait that revealed something true about the artist. But every time he tried to capture his reflection, the image seemed to slip away like water through his fingers.
Outside, Chicago's October wind rattled the windows of the converted warehouse that housed the art department's graduate studios. Most of his classmates had abandoned their spaces hours ago, retreating to warm apartments and the comfort of Netflix binges. Marcus preferred the solitude of these late hours when the building felt like a cathedral of creativity, empty and echoing with possibility.



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