Chapter 4 First Impressions

Marina's charcoal moved in slow, deliberate strokes, dark and rhythmic like a whisper with weight. Each line deepened the silhouette of the building she had studied from every online angle-the Sinclair Gallery. Modernist, asymmetrical, all hard edges and clean hunger. Three floors of glass and brutalist concrete perched like a minimalist fortress in the heart of West L.A. It was both a shrine and a stronghold. And she wasn't just drawing it-she was dissecting it.

She leaned closer to the page, fingers already smudged with soot. The curve of the south-side mezzanine. The brutal spire of the side stairwell. She pressed harder, thickening the arch of the discreet service entrance-Julian once mentioned it was how the "real" artists snuck in.

"Looks aggressive," said a voice to her left. "Like it's about to bite someone."

Marina didn't flinch. She kept her charcoal moving but glanced sideways.

Theo Marris.

He stood half-slouched, one hip leaning against her table, his ever-present headphones resting around his neck like a necklace of good intentions. His paint-splattered hoodie had seen better decades. A chewed-up pencil dangled from the corner of his mouth, and he looked at her sketch like he was trying to taste it.

"It's a building," Marina said. "Not a dog."

Theo squinted. "Still. Intense. That's the Sinclair Gallery, right?"

She didn't answer.

He smirked. "Of course it is. Concrete monster. Full of ghosts and money."

"It's an architectural study," she said flatly.

Theo laughed through his nose. "That's adorable. Everyone else is sketching fruit bowls and café chairs. You're rendering a fortress like you're planning a siege."

Marina peeled the charcoal from her hand and leaned back. "I'm interested in institutional structures."

Theo tilted his head. "That sounds like something you say when you've been dumped by someone who is an institution."

She didn't reply.

But her fingers twitched.

He caught it.

"Julian Sinclair", he said. "Right?"

Marina's expression didn't shift.

Theo made a low whistling sound. "Oof. Yeah. I was at that showcase. You two were the only thing people talked about-well, you and the guy who spilled rosé on the Rothko knockoff."

Marina exhaled through her nose and closed her sketchbook with a definitive snap. "Theo. This conversation isn't a collaboration."

"Touché," he said. "Look, I'm not here to poke. Just curious. Because if you're drawing that place for more than 'architecture', you should know what you're stepping into."

She folded her arms. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Alexander Sinclair." Theo's voice dropped into something lower-half warning, half confession. "The guy runs the gallery like a cult and a chessboard. He collects talent, crushes egos, and curates his enemies into irrelevance. Fast."

"I'm aware."

"Are you?" He lowered his voice, leaning in slightly. "Because I heard a rumor-an artist he sponsored three years ago? Mia Van Holst? Supposed to be the next Basquiat. She made the mistake of saying no when he got interested. Next thing anyone knew, she was 'inexplicably' dropped from three group shows. Her visa application hit turbulence. She's doing menu illustrations in Berlin now."

Marina didn't blink. "So your warning is: don't draw too close."

Theo gave a half-smile. "I'm saying if you are drawing close, be sharper than him. Because he's not just rich or powerful-he's curated. Everything about him is deliberate. Charm, interest, affection. Even the cruelty. He'll give you the world, but the receipt will say 'soul'."

"Do you warn all your classmates this much?" Marina asked, head tilted.

"No," Theo said honestly. "But most of them aren't talented enough to get his attention."

Marina gathered her supplies with clinical precision, slipping the folded sketches into her portfolio with a smooth fold.

She watched him with a guarded expression. "Good to know you keep tabs on L.A.'s favorite art tyrant."

"I pay attention when I don't want to be crushed. You should, too."

Marina calmly slid the sketch of the Sinclair Gallery into her portfolio like she was storing a blueprint for war.

"He's not going to buy me," she said.

Theo shrugged, tapping the side of his temple with her charcoal stick. "Nobody thinks they're for sale until someone starts bidding."

Her voice was quiet, but cold as steel. "I'm not here to be collected."

"Then what are you here for?

"I want to break his gaze wide open," she said calmly. "And hold it there."

Theo gave a low, appreciative whistle. "You're terrifying."

Marina smiled for the first time, not nicely. "You have no idea."

Theo chuckled, shaking his head. "Good luck, Cortez. Hope your armor's thicker than your sketch lines."

As she stood, Theo reached for something in his hoodie pocket and held it out to her-a small, frayed flyer.

"What's this?"

"Off-campus show next week. Warehouse in Echo Park. Weird crowd, loose rules. Faculty won't go. But collectors sniff around. If you're aiming for Alexander's radar, you might want a few more whispers in the air first. He doesn't chase obscurity-he hunts heat."

Marina looked at the flyer. Hand-drawn skulls. A title: SPILL. Below it: No theme. No permission. Just presence.

"Thanks," she said. She didn't smile.

Theo lifted a shoulder. "Just don't become a cautionary tale, Cortez. Or if you do-make it a good one."

Marina didn't respond. She turned and walked out of the studio, each step measured, heels echoing on the linoleum like punctuation. But behind her, she could feel it-the shift. The rumor forming.

Her portfolio tucked tight under her arm, fingers still stained with charcoal, she looked every inch the insurgent scholar.

And in her mind, the blueprint was already unfolding.

Alexander Sinclair's gallery wasn't just a building.

It was a door.

And she was going to walk through it-with her name sharp on his lips and her work burned into the walls.