Quiet Strokes
<MALAYSIA~KUALA LUMPUR FACULTY OF ART UNIVERSITY>
The hum of quiet focus filled the spacious hall.
Sunlight spilled through the tall glass windows, washing over rows of wooden easels arranged in a semi-circle. Students stood or sat behind them, heads lowered, completely absorbed in capturing the live model positioned on a raised dais at the center of the room.
The model held a still pose—one arm lifted slightly, chin tilted just enough to cast sharp shadows along the collarbone. Every few seconds, someone shifted their stance or flipped a page, but otherwise, the room breathed in silence.
Only the soft scratch of pencils against paper broke it.
Miss Yvonne moved slowly between the rows like a silent judge, her heels clicking softly against the polished floor. Her eyes missed nothing.
“Observe proportions,” she said calmly, stopping behind a student. “Don’t draw what you think you see. Draw what is actually there.”
The student nodded quickly, adjusting their lines.
The door at the back creaked open.
It was faint—but in a room trained to notice detail, it was enough.
A few students glanced up.
A young man stepped inside.
He didn’t announce himself. Didn’t hesitate. Just slipped into the room with a sketchpad tucked under one arm, as though he had every right to be late.
Prince.
He scanned the room once, then walked straight to an empty seat beside a girl already halfway through her drawing.
Clementine.
She noticed him immediately and visibly disliked the intrusion.
Her pencil paused.
Prince said nothing. No greeting, no apology. He simply sat, opened his sketchpad, and began.
At first, there was nothing remarkable about it.
Just another student drawing.
But then his hand settled into rhythm.
Confident strokes. Clean lines. No hesitation. It was as though the image already existed in his mind and the pencil was merely catching up.
Clementine’s eyes flicked sideways once.
Then again.
Annoyance tightened her expression as she caught a glimpse of his paper. Her jaw tensed slightly, but she forced herself to look away.
The model remained still.
Time stretched.
The scratching of pencils grew more layered, more intense. Pages turned. Erasers worked quietly.
Prince didn’t look up once.
Miss Yvonne’s footsteps slowed.
“Alright,” she announced at last, clapping her hands once.
“Pencils down.”
A collective exhale moved through the room. Shoulders loosened. Some students flexed cramped fingers. Others stared at their work like they were seeing it for the first time.
Miss Yvonne began her walk again.
She stopped at each easel, offering brief corrections, soft praises, sharp critiques where needed.
“Good structure… but your light source is confused.”
“Better. Much better.”
Then she reached Clementine.
She studied the drawing for a moment longer than necessary.
“Clementine,” she said gently, “this is a lovely composition.”
Clementine’s shoulders lifted slightly at the praise.
“But…” Miss Yvonne tilted her head. “Watch the shading along the model’s jawline. You’ve softened it too much, it throws off your proportions.”
Clementine nodded quickly. “Yes, Miss.”
A tight smile stayed on her face even after Miss Yvonne moved on.
Then she stopped again.
The atmosphere shifted almost immediately.
Prince.
Miss Yvonne didn’t speak at first. She simply took the sketch from him.
Her expression changed the moment her eyes landed on it.
A small smile formed, genuine this time.
“Ah…” she breathed.
She turned the sketch slightly toward the class.
“Now this,” she said, voice brightening, “this is what I’m talking about.”
Students began to look up.
“Confident line work. Controlled chaos where it matters. And emotion, look at this stroke here. It’s not just observation, it’s interpretation.”
Her eyes returned to Prince.
“Did you want to share your process?”
Prince leaned back slightly in his chair.
A shrug. Calm. Almost indifferent.
“I just drew what I saw,” he said simply.
A few students murmured.
Miss Yvonne smiled wider.
“Well,” she said, handing the sketch back reluctantly, “if every ‘just drew what I saw’ looked like this, I’d have nothing left to teach.”
The class broke into light laughter.
“Alright,” she clapped again, satisfied. “Class dismissed.”
Chairs scraped back. Bags zipped. The room slowly dissolved into movement and chatter.
And then...
it shifted.
Students gathered around Prince almost instantly.
“Hey, how did you get that shading?”
“Do you take commissions?”
“That perspective is insane, are you self-taught?”
Prince answered none of them fully. Just small nods, half-smiles, brief words that gave nothing away.
Clementine stood.
For a moment, she looked at him, really looked at him.
Then she turned away sharply, gripping her sketchpad tighter than necessary.
She walked out without looking back.
And no one noticed.
Not Prince.
Not the crowd still circling him.
Only her fading footsteps remained.
---
<CORRIDOR>
The hallway outside the studio was louder than the room they had just left.
Laughter bounced off the walls. Footsteps rushed in different directions. Students compared sketches, praised each other, exaggerated their confidence now that Miss Yvonne was no longer watching.
Prince walked through it all like it didn’t belong to him.
He adjusted the strap of his sketchpad under his arm, eyes forward, expression unreadable.
“Prince!”
A voice called out.
He didn’t stop immediately.
Another step.
Then another.
Only when a hand lightly grabbed his sleeve did he pause.
A student stood beside him, one of the ones who had circled him earlier.
“Man, that drawing inside… how long have you been doing art?”
Prince looked at him briefly.
“A while,” he said.
“That’s it?” the student laughed. “You make it look easy.”
Prince gave a small, almost careless shrug.
“It’s not.”
And with that, he continued walking.
The student was left standing there, still processing the answer that didn’t feel like an answer at all.
At the end of the corridor, Clementine stood near the notice board.
She had been there the entire time.
Watching.
Not him directly—but the way people reacted to him.
The way they followed him with their eyes.
The way his presence lingered even after he left a room.
When Prince passed, their eyes met for half a second.
No greeting.
No hostility spoken out loud.
Just recognition.
Then he walked past her.
Like she was part of the background.
Clementine’s fingers tightened around her sketchpad.
Her jaw clenched.
She turned away sharply.
---
<UNIVERSITY COURTYARD~LATER>
The late afternoon sun hit the campus in soft gold tones.
Students filtered out in groups, some heading to cafés, others to hostels, others simply lingering because they didn’t want the day to end.
Clementine sat alone on a low bench under a tree.
Her sketchpad rested on her lap.
But she wasn’t drawing.
Instead, she flipped back to her earlier page—the one Prince had sat beside her for.
Her eyes scanned it again.
Her lines were careful. Controlled. Correct.
But after seeing his work…
it suddenly felt small.
She shut the book a little harder than necessary.
“Annoying,” she muttered under her breath.
A pause.
Then softer—
“…who draws like that?”
She leaned back, staring at the sky like it might answer her frustration.
But the sky didn’t care.
---
<MCMAHON’S RESIDENCE~LATE EVENING>
The house was quiet in a way that didn’t feel peaceful.
It felt expensive.
Expensive silence. Expensive emptiness.
Light from the city outside bled through floor-to-ceiling windows, stretching across polished marble like liquid gold. The space was vast enough to swallow sound whole.
Prince stood by the tall window, hands buried in his pockets.
Outside, the garden lights blinked softly among trimmed hedges. Beyond that, Kuala Lumpur glittered—alive, distant, indifferent.
He didn’t move.
Behind him, heels tapped softly against the floor.
Slow.
Measured.
Controlled.
Stella McMahon stopped a few steps away.
Her presence filled the room before her voice did.
“You’ve not come home for days,” she said at last.
Prince didn’t turn.
“I needed space,” he replied.
A pause.
“This is your home.”
“I know.”
Silence again.
Stella exhaled softly, as though she had expected this exact conversation and still disliked it. She adjusted the sleeve of her tailored dress, perfect, as always—then gestured slightly.
“Sit down, Prince.”
This time, he turned.
Slowly.
Not in defiance. Not in obedience either.
Something in between.
He crossed the room and sat across from her.
Stella studied him like she was assessing risk.
“I’ve been patient,” she began. “More patient than most mothers would be.”
Prince said nothing.
“You’re talented,” she continued. “I’ve never denied that. But talent without direction is wasteful.”
“My direction is clear,” he said evenly.
A faint smile touched Stella’s lips.
“Art is not a direction,” she replied. “It’s a phase.”
Prince’s jaw tightened slightly.
“You’ve won awards,” she continued. “Applause. Headlines. Recognition. But applause doesn’t build empires.”
“I’m not trying to build one.”
“That’s the problem.”
Her voice sharpened just a little.
“You carry the McMahon name. People expect legacy. Not exhibitions.”
Prince met her gaze fully now.
“I expect peace.”
That line hung in the air longer than the rest.
Stella straightened.
“You’re being stubborn.”
“I’m being honest.”
“Childish.”
“No,” Prince said quietly. “I’m being myself.”
Silence stretched.
Heavy.
Uncomfortable.
Stella rose and walked to the bar. The sound of glass meeting glass filled the space as she poured herself a drink.
“This is the last time I’ll ask nicely,” she said without turning. “Withdraw from that department. Focus on something worthwhile. Politics. Business. Something that matters.”
Prince stood.
His voice dropped slightly.
“It’s been over three years. I’ve been studying for this path, and now you want me to abandon it? I won’t.”
Stella finally turned.
Her eyes locked onto his.
“I warned you,” she said. “You think this world is kind to dreamers?”
A pause.
“It eats them alive.”
“Then I’ll learn to survive,” Prince replied.
Something shifted in her expression... not anger yet.
Disappointment.
Sharper than anger.
“I won’t protect you forever.”
“I’m not asking you to.”
A soft laugh left her lips.
“You sound brave now,” she said. “Just remember, everything you have came through me.”
Prince stepped forward slightly.
“And everything I am came despite you.”
That landed.
The air changed.
Stella’s fingers tightened around her glass.
“Think carefully,” she said quietly. “Because when I stop convincing… I start correcting. And no one will have your back.”
Prince didn’t blink.
“Do what you must,” he said. “So will I.”
He turned and walked out.
The door closed behind him softly.
Stella remained still.
For a long moment, she stared at the empty space he left behind.
Then...a faint crack ran through the glass in her hand.
---
<MCMAHON’S RESIDENCE~SAME NIGHT>
The house felt colder at night.
Not because of temperature.
Because of silence that had weight.
Prince stood in his room now.
Not the living room. Not the window.
His private space.
A wall filled with pinned sketches stretched in front of him—studies, experiments, unfinished ideas. Some were years old. Some were recent.
All of them spoke in lines instead of words.
He removed a new sheet from his sketchpad.
The drawing from class.
He stared at it.
For the first time, his expression shifted slightly.
Not pride.
Not satisfaction.
Something quieter.
Tiredness.
Like the weight of being “gifted” was beginning to feel heavier than the gift itself.
His phone buzzed.
Once.
Twice.
A message from an unknown number.
He didn’t open it immediately.
After a moment, he did.
UNKNOWN:
“Your work is being discussed by the board. Not all attention is good attention.”
Prince’s eyes narrowed slightly.
Another message came immediately after.
UNKNOWN:
“Be careful. Not everyone in your department wants you there.”
A pause.
He locked the phone without replying.
Then placed it face down on the desk.
His gaze returned to the sketch.
Something about it no longer felt like art.
It felt like exposure.
---
<CUT TO~UNIVERSITY ADMIN OFFICE>
A dim office. Blinds half-closed.
Two figures stood near a desk filled with student portfolios.
One of them slid Prince’s sketch forward.
“It’s him,” a voice said quietly.
A pause.
The other figure didn’t respond immediately.
Then...
“We’ve been expecting that name.”
A finger tapped lightly on the paper.
“McMahon.”
Silence followed.
Then a slow, thoughtful exhale.
“Let’s see how long he stays… before he breaks.”
