Chapter 3: The Exhibition (Daniel POV)

Chapter 3: The Only Shot (Leo POV)

I'm pacing my apartment, boots scuffing the worn floorboards, when a loud bang rattles the door, hard enough to shake the frame. My heart slams into my ribs, and I yank it open to find Mr. Grady, my landlord, glaring at me. His bald head shines under the hallway light, and his eyes are mean, narrowed to slits.

"Leo!" he bellows, jabbing a thick finger at my chest. "Rent's three days late, you've got seven days left, or you're out on the street!"

I step forward, voice rising. "Seven days? I'll get it, Grady!"

He laughs, a harsh bark that stinks of onions, and he leans in close. "Seven days, kid, no excuses, no sob stories. Pay up, or I'm changing the locks!"

I clench my fists, itching to shove him, but I snap instead, "I said I'll get it, back off!"

He glares for a long moment, then he turns and stomps away, his heavy boots echoing down the stairwell. I slam the door shut, wood vibrating, and I grab the eviction notice off the counter, red letters blaring "FINAL NOTICE, 7 DAYS."

My stomach twists, sharp and sick, like a blade's digging in. Seven days to scrape together cash I don't have, or I'm done.

The apartment's a disaster, canvases lean against the walls, half-painted or blank, staring at me like silent judges. Paint tubes clutter the table, some oozing onto scratched wood, and the sink's piled with crusty dishes, a fly buzzing lazily over them.

I drop onto the mattress, springs creaking loud under my weight, and I run a shaky hand through my hair. That exhibition's my only shot, sell one piece, just one, and I can pay the rent, keep this dump. Max said it might take a bribe, but I've got nothing, not even enough for a coffee downtown.

Another knock hits the door, softer this time, and I drag myself up, figuring it's Grady again. It's Mia, grinning wide, blonde hair tied back messy, a grocery bag hugged to her chest.

"Hey!" she says, breezing past me with that bouncy energy I can't match. "Got good news!"

She drops the bag on the counter with a thud and she starts unpacking, bread, peanut butter, a couple of dented cans clinking together. I shut the door, I lean against it, arms crossed, watching her stack the food like it's a big win.

Things with Mia have been fraying lately, stupid fights, me pulling away, her pushing too hard. We're still friends, sort of, but it's been a mess since my life started sinking.

"What's up?" I ask, voice flat, no room for her cheer.

She turns, eyes sparkling too bright. "Got a job! Pierce Gallery, downtown, clerical stuff, nothing fancy, but it's a start." She keeps unpacking, chatting fast about her first day, how she'll answer phones and file papers.

"Good for you," I mutter, staring at the floor, scuffing my boot on a paint stain.

Her smile falters, and she steps closer, tilting her head. "You okay, Leo? You look like hell."

I shrug, turning away. "Fine."

She doesn't buy it, reaching for my arm, her hand warm. "Hey, I brought food, thought we could hang out, maybe cheer you up."

I jerk free, snapping, "I don't need cheering, Mia! I lost my job, landlord's threatening me, I'm screwed!"

Her eyes widen, hand dropping to her side. "What? Why didn't you tell me?"

"Didn't want to," I say, glaring at the dripping faucet, water plinking into the sink. "It's my problem."

She steps in again, voice soft but pressing. "Let me help, I can spot you some cash, or..."

I cut her off, loud, "No! I'll handle it, stop pushing!"

She flinches, face paling, and she takes a step back. "What's wrong with you, Leo?" she asks, voice cracking.

"Nothing," I growl, gripping the sink's edge, knuckles white. "Just leave it."

She's quiet for a long beat, then she grabs her bag, slow and deliberate. "Okay," she says, small, hurt lacing every word. "Call me if you need me."

The door clicks shut behind her, and guilt stabs me quick, but I shove it down. My head's already racing, exhibition, rent, seven days ticking away.

I grab my jacket, the leather worn and beat-up, and I head out, boots splashing through puddles on the wet streets. The gallery's downtown, I've got no appointment, no plan, just desperation.

Pierce Gallery looms ahead, all sleek glass and steel, too fancy for me. Inside, it's quiet, white walls lined with perfect paintings, a woman at the desk typing fast, glasses slipping down her nose.

I walk up, hands in my pockets, shifting my weight. "Hey, I need to talk to someone about the exhibition."

She glances up, bored. "Name?"

"Leo," I say, voice tight. "I'm an artist, I need a spot."

She shakes her head, not even pausing her typing. "No openings. Invite-only."

I lean in, desperate. "Please, I'm good, give me a chance, just look at my stuff!"

She sighs, sharp and annoyed. "Submit online like everyone else, wait your turn."

I open my mouth to argue, but voices interrupt, two guys in suits by a painting, sipping coffee, talking low.

"That party Friday," one says, smooth and smug, "VIPs, sponsors, it's where careers get made. Get noticed, and you're in."

The other nods, swirling his cup. "Big money there, one sale, and you're set for years."

My pulse kicks up, hammering in my chest. Friday, the party Mia mentioned, full of rich snobs and art buyers. I could crash it, show my work, skip Max's bribe nonsense.

I turn back to the desk woman, voice low. "That party, who's going?"

She frowns, suspicious. "VIPs, artists, sponsors. Why?"

"No reason," I lie, stepping back, fire spreading through me.

I bolt outside, the air cool and sharp, heart racing like it's about to burst. That's my shot, not begging here, not waiting for Max. I'll sneak in, I'll talk to someone, I'll sell something, anything to survive.

Back home, I kick the door shut, I grab my phone, and I call Max, pacing fast across the creaky floor. It rings twice before he picks up, sounding tired.

"Leo, what now?"

"That party Friday," I say, urgent, words tumbling out. "You know it?"

"Yeah," he says, slow, like he's chewing it over. "Big deal, VIPs, rich types. Why?"

"I'm crashing it," I say, phone creaking in my grip.

He laughs, sharp and loud. "You're nuts, you need an invite or a miracle to pull that off."

"I'll figure it," I say, firm. "Keep pushing my spot, yeah?"

"Don't get caught," he says, grinning through the line.

I hang up, I slump onto the mattress, breathing quick and shallow. Seven days. That party's my door, crazy, reckless, but mine.

I grab a sketchbook, I flip it open, and I start scratching charcoal fast, a figure sneaking in, shadows crowding tight. My hand shakes, lines smear, but I keep going, black dust caking under my nails.

The exhibition's my lifeline, and Friday's my way in, I'll make it, no matter what.