It was a beautiful gray.
And I was the one who drew it.
The line, drawn eerily across the Kent paper, resembled a sharply curved 'ㄱ'—sharp at both ends like a plane landing and then immediately taking off, its middle part thick and blunt.
The placement was exquisite.
Starting from the left brow bone and continuing down the bridge of the nose, it foreshadowed the creation of a composition known as the "slightly right-angled view," considered one of the most beautiful in plaster cast sketches.
Leaning back in my chair to admire the line, I gripped the pencil again. The metal grip, warmed to just the right degree, slipped smoothly into my palm.
Yes. Today was different.
I could sense things I hadn't sensed until yesterday. I could feel the weight of air passing between my fingers with the slightest motion. My senses had grown exponentially sharper.
I slightly raised my gaze. Beyond the easel, I could see the back of Venus' head. Even my vision felt clearer than usual—sharper, more focused.
Right now, I felt like I could render a whole cluster of curls writhing like Medusa's snakes. But the back of the head wasn't what I wanted to draw.
I closed my eyes again. Then, I recalled the slightly right-angled view of the Venus plaster cast I had glimpsed while walking past with my easel. The memory was so vivid, it was as if I had taken a photo.
There was no doubt.
This sensitivity and photographic memory—these were from a previous life.
When I recalled my past life after yesterday's accident, I hadn't just regained memories—I had awakened Michelangelo's senses and recall as well.
As thoughts spiraled through my mind, the sound of pencils scratching paper suddenly surrounded me. It brought me back to the reality that this was a test.
Right. This was an exam.
What had happened to me was astonishing, but this wasn't the time to sit around marveling at it.
First, I had to draw.
2.4 centimeters. Pressing my thumb over the "Tombow MONO" logo etched on the sharply carved graphite, I aligned it with the groove the cutter had left.
Firmly, I pressed the pencil where the blade had once passed and began to draw. The signature rich darkness of the Tombow MONO trailed behind, casting a monochrome spectrum in its wake.
Ssshhk—without hesitation, I drew a line. Without blinking once, I kept going. My hand moved faster and faster. Before the concentration slipped away—quickly! Following the lines forming in my mind, I let the pencil race across the blank paper.
Faster. Harder. Never stopping!
As if possessed, I drew with frenzied abandon.
━ ♪♬♪♬
Then the bell rang.
My ear twitched at the sound.
━ ♪♪ ♪
It was the climax of Chopin's Ballade No. 1—the bell announcing break time. The moment I registered it, my concentration snapped, and the melody pierced my ears with clarity.
All the sounds of the world returned. My heightened senses, which had soared to the heavens, came rushing back into my body. I was breathless. Puh! I exhaled. It seemed I had forgotten to breathe while drawing.
"Alright, anyone who needs to go to the bathroom, go. Those who want to keep drawing, keep at it."
"If you're caught sneaking reference photos in the bathroom, you're losing points!"
The voices of the young instructors working under Mr. Go Doohan rang out across the studio.
When had fifty minutes passed? I turned my head, listening to the bell ringing from the main building. My mind was blank. Beyond the wide-open window, the sky was deep blue.
"Soojin, I'm going to the bathroom…"
"Yeah? Let's go together."
The girls paired off and headed for the bathroom, and the fewer boys in the art department gathered in small groups in the corners of the room.
Some students stood up to check their drawings or observe the plaster cast again.
"Hey. Hey, look at Kangseok spacing out."
"Leave him."
"Is he struggling with the drawing?"
"…I just don't get it. I'm working this hard, and he still can't draw? Is it really that hard?"
While I was catching my breath, a group of students began hurling barbs. They didn't even lower their voices, as if they didn't care whether I heard them or not.
They stared downward, wanting to reassure themselves of their elevated positions. A few others followed their lead and looked over at me.
If it had been me yesterday, I would've been deeply hurt by those words and those stares. But not today. Today, I returned a small, cold smile.
"…Did Kangseok just smile at us?"
"…What the hell?"
There were 2 hours and 10 minutes left in the exam. Once time was up, they'd understand why I smiled. Until then, I hoped the question tormented them—why did I smile?
With that thought, I tilted my pencil. It was time to shade the surfaces.
. . .
Part-time instructor Lim Woohyun glanced at the clock.
There were about 4 minutes left until the end of the 3rd period break. The students, making their final push, clung desperately to their easels.
Their expressions were uniformly grim.
Plaster casts had no gloss to help show off reflective highlights. Their forms were blocky and hard to describe with sharp detailing. And since the base was pure white, any attempt to add contrast by now—through darker tones—was bound to clash with the initial light sketch.
The students in Class D looked visibly flustered, unsure of how to finish their pieces.
'This… is actually quite effective for evaluation.'
Though plaster casts had once dominated Korean fine art entrance exams from the 1980s to the early 2000s, they were clearly an unfamiliar subject to today's students. Their raw foundational skills—or lack thereof—were on full display before the cast.
Ironically, plaster cast sketching—once the poster child of rote memorization—had now become a hidden ace for evaluating genuine ability. Funny how times change.
He glanced at the clock again, a habit. Two more minutes had passed. Only two minutes remained. It was time to start preparing. Lim Woohyun pushed himself off the pillar he had been leaning against.
Just then, a woman with a bob haircut the color of red wine approached him.
"Mr. Lim Woohyun."
"Ah, Ms. Jang Yumin."
It was Jang Yumin, the instructor in charge of Sketching Class C. Recently recruited from Anseong Arts High School to Cheonghwa Arts High, she spoke with a sparkle in her eyes, her face lit up like a mischievous kid.
"Chunghwa Art High is definitely different. Everyone's really talented."
"Well, of course. It's Chunghwa Art High."
In truth, what had emerged was a clearer distinction in ability—but most of the students were already far beyond typical high school level.
"Right. This is Chunghwa Art High."
At Jang Yumin's reply, Lim Woohyun lowered his head with a faintly unimpressed expression. 11:30 a.m. It had been three hours since the exam started.
Without hesitation, Lim Woohyun walked toward the students.
"Okay, time's up! Hands off the paper, everyone!"
Jang Yumin glanced at Lim Woohyun for a moment, then turned away toward Class C without a second thought. She clapped her hands and spoke in her usual sharp tone.
"From now on, touching your drawing counts as cheating. Class monitors, start collecting the drawings—oh, and make sure no one forgot to write their name in the bottom right corner!"
Disappointed sighs and groans erupted all around. At the same time, the sound of folding stools and moving easels filled the studio with a racket.
As the plaster casts and easels were cleared away and the studio regained its original spaciousness, each class monitor began collecting their classmates' drawings from the clips.
Every time a sheet was handed over, the monitor checked for a name in the bottom right and folded the corner in a triangle to prevent any misconduct.
D-class's monitor, Oh Hyejeong, did the same. But in addition to checking names, she carefully examined each drawing one by one.
By checking the works of her peers with similar skill levels, she could roughly estimate her own ranking. Maybe this time I can move up to Class C. Her hands moved faster.
Oh Hyejeong's current rank was 62nd out of 80 students in the art department. Most of Class D would have to perform worse than her to open the path upward. Flap, flap—as she approached Lim Woohyun with the drawings, her hand suddenly stopped on the last sheet.
…What is this?
"Hyejeong, are you feeling okay?"
"..."
"Hyejeong?"
"…Huh?"
Kwon Sohui, who had attended the same art academy as Oh Hyejeong since middle school, looked at her with concern.
To Sohui, Hyejeong had seemed off ever since the exam ended. She looked dazed—her face flushed, like she might be running a fever.
"Hey, are you sure you're okay? Do you want to go to the nurse's office?"
"No, no. I'm fine."
Hyejeong shook her head and gripped her blanket tightly. When Sohui followed her gaze, she saw the teachers arranging the drawings for evaluation.
Is it the results? Just as Sohui considered telling her to rest and let her handle things, a boy from the neighboring class walked over with a twitchy grin.
Ugh, what's this jerk doing here now? Sohui frowned as Kim Donghui dragged a stool right next to Hyejeong.
"Oh Hyejeong. You saw Kangseok's drawing, right?"
"…What?"
"You know, Kangseok's drawing. You're the monitor of Class D, so you would've seen it while collecting, right?"
"…Yeah."
As Hyejeong awkwardly answered, Donghui dove straight to the point.
"So? Was it good?"
"Hey, Kim Donghui. Hyejeong's not feeling well, okay? Don't bug her. If you're that curious, ask Kangseok yourself. I'm sure he'll tell you."
"Oh, should I? Hmm. I was going to avoid it since it might embarrass him."
Donghui's smirk twitched again. If anything, he looked delighted. Sohui stared at him in disbelief.
Kangseok had ranked dead last in every single studio class for two years straight. Probably the same this time. So why even ask?
Kim Donghui was in Class A—a different league entirely. He had no reason to care. He just wanted to enjoy the moment Kangseok hit rock bottom.
"Can you just cut it out already?"
Sohui didn't consider herself a moral crusader, but Donghui's behavior was just too childish for a high schooler.
"What? You're twisting my words, Sohui."
Everyone knew Donghui hated Kangseok. The reason was just as well known.
In a group project during a first-year class on expressive techniques, Donghui had confidently spread incorrect information like it was fact. Kangseok had called him out—and that's when it all started.
Sohui opened her mouth, about to bring up the incident Donghui hated being reminded of. But then Hyejeong spoke first.
"Donghui. You're curious about Seokie's drawing?"
It was such a sudden shift that no one even noticed she'd just called Kangseok by the endearing nickname "Seokie."
Donghui gave her a strangely disappointed look.
"…Huh? Uh. I was going to ask him myself, but are you going to show me?"
"Yeah. It's that one."
Hyejeong pointed toward a specific sheet.
Donghui, Sohui, and all the other students nearby instinctively followed her finger.
It was the last drawing in Class D. Set slightly apart from the others—no way to mistake it.
Students stood up from their chairs to get a better look.
That one? Everyone gasped before they could even deny it.
There was Venus.
In the most literal sense.
No one looking at that sheet would think it was merely a composition of lines and shading. The goddess of love and beauty was alive, breathing on that A2 paper.
"…This can't be real."
As his eyes met the serene gaze of Venus, Kim Donghui's fingers slipped—and his pencil dropped to the floor.