Sharing the Same Screen
Thursday, 2:00 PM. It was deadline day. I had to submit the final files by midnight tonight. Three character illustrations for a game company: the main heroine, the sub-heroine, and the villain. The main and sub-heroines were finished; only the villain remained.
The character itself was done, but the entire gothic castle background that was supposed to sit behind the villain was completely untouched. Worse, I didn't like the villain's pose. He was holding a sword in his left hand, but the angle of his shoulder looked unnatural. I adjusted it, undid the change, and adjusted it again. My stylus slid tirelessly across the tablet.
"Ugh..." My neck was stiff. I had been sitting in this exact position since last night, hunched over in front of the monitor without even leaning back against my chair. Three cups of coffee, a glass of water, and a quick fried rice I'd whipped up this morning using ingredients Haeun had brought over—that was all I'd had. In deadline mode, I wasn't human. I was a machine. A drawing machine.
I drew another line on the tablet, adjusting the villain's eyes. I angled the outer corners upward and darkened the irises slightly. This character needed to be both alluring and menacing—eyes that conveyed both emotions simultaneously. It was a difficult balance to strike.
Just then, the doorbell rang. I ignored it. I was in the middle of a deadline. It rang again. I ignored it. A third time.
"Oppa!" It was Dain. Her voice drifted through the door. "Oppa, it's Dain! Open up!" If I ignored her, she would keep pressing it. She was just that kind of person. I stood up and opened the front door. Dain stood there, wearing an oversized sweatshirt, short shorts, and slippers. She held a tablet in her hand, and her hair was pinned back with two hairpins.
"What's up?"
"You have a deadline today, right, Oppa?"
"...Yeah."
"Want me to help?"
It was completely out of the blue. "Help with what?"
"The background. Your deadline is tight, isn't it? There's no way you can handle three characters and do all the backgrounds by yourself. Let me lend you a hand."
In terms of pure background illustration skills, I was better. Dain knew this, too; she was the one who had analyzed Siru's portfolio inside out. However, I had spent all my time on the three characters, leaving less than half a day for the background. If I went at it alone, I'd be up all night, and the consistency of the tone might waver. Dain was more than qualified to assist. As someone who had entered art school after falling in love with my Empty Room series, she had memorized the spatial tone of Siru's work completely. If it was a matter of mimicking Siru's style rather than drawing her own, Dain knew exactly how to do it.
"Dain, I appreciate it, but this is client work—"
"I'm your fan, Oppa. I've analyzed Siru's art style so much. I can match the tone."
Dain held up her tablet. An illustration was displayed on the screen: a gothic castle background rendered in dark purple and black tones. The texture work wasn't bad. Actually, to be honest, it was quite good.
"Did you draw this yourself?"
"Yes! I practiced by referencing your portfolio, Oppa."
So she had actually studied my style. If a fan's devotion reached this level, it was almost bordering on obsession.
"...Come in."
Dain's face lit up instantly. She looked like the sun. Seriously. This girl wore her emotions entirely on her face. When she was happy, she shone brightly; when she was sad, she grew equally dark. Dain slipped off her slippers and stepped inside, heading straight for my studio. Once inside, she looked around.
"Wow, Oppa, did you get a new monitor?"
"Yeah."
"Awesome. The color accuracy is amazing. I want one of these too."
Dain stood in front of my monitor. The villain illustration was displayed on the screen. She stared at it quietly, her eyes turning serious. The bright, playful expression from a moment ago vanished, replaced by an analytical gaze.
"This character... the eyes aren't quite finished, right?"
She was spot on.
"It lacks a sense of allure. There's menace, but it doesn't draw you in."
Even more accurate. I looked at Dain again. She only ever made this face in front of art. At this moment, she wasn't the usual innocent college student; she was an artist. Her gaze was sharp, and her critique was precise.
"How about adding another light source to the iris? Right here, in the bottom left. Just a tiny one. That would give the eyes more depth and make them feel captivating."
I picked up my stylus. Following Dain's suggestion, I added a tiny highlight to the bottom left of the iris. Just a small dot. It made a world of difference. The villain's eyes instantly came to life—menacing yet alluring, both qualities coexisting perfectly. I had known the answer deep down, but my hand just hadn't moved. My brain had stalled after three consecutive days of working toward the deadline. Dain's casual suggestion had broken the block.
"...Not bad."
"Not bad? It's amazing! Oppa, am I a genius or what?"
"Sure, you're a genius. Can I ask you to work on the background now?"
"Of course!"
I set up the workspace, uploading my project file to a shared folder so Dain could access it from her tablet. I isolated the background layers and handed them over. The problem was the space. My studio wasn't large. It had one desk, two monitors, and a single chair. For Dain to work, she had to sit right next to me. I brought in another chair—a dining chair from the living room—and placed it beside my desk. The gap was narrow, close enough for our shoulders to brush. Dain sat down without a second thought, resting her tablet on her lap and beginning to draw. I sat in my seat and continued working on the villain character. It was a collaboration—the first in my three years of freelancing. I had always drawn alone. I had preferred it that way, fearing that another person's touch would disrupt the tone and make the art no longer mine. But right now—
"Oppa, is this texture for the castle wall okay?"
Dain tilted her tablet to show me. I had to lean in close to see. As I turned my head and she angled the screen, our movements overlapped, and Dain's shoulder brushed against my arm. It was soft. I could feel the shape of her shoulder through the fabric of her sweatshirt—small and rounded.
"I think the stone texture should be a bit rougher. Since it's a villain's castle, it needs to look ancient and menacing."
"Ah, like this?"
Dain moved her stylus. I leaned toward her to look at the screen. It was a natural movement since I was focused on the work, merely checking the screen. But Dain was leaning in at the exact same angle. Our heads were incredibly close. A scent drifted from her hair. Shampoo? No, it was something mixed with the smell of paint—a scent unique to Dain, a distinct blend of oil paints and fruity shampoo.
"Oppa, this part here—"
Dain turned her head. I turned mine at the same time. We were so close—ten centimeters? No, even closer. Her round eyes were right in front of mine, her eyelashes long and delicate.
"..."
"..."
For a second, silence hung between us. Dain was the first to break into a smile.
"Oppa, you have something on your nose."
"What?"
Dain reached up and tapped the tip of my nose with her finger.
"Just kidding. There's nothing there."
"Hey."
Dain giggled and turned back to her drawing. I did the same. My heart skipped a beat before returning to its normal rhythm. It was nothing. Just a joke. Because it was Dain.
The work continued. Three o'clock, four o'clock, five o'clock. Surprisingly, Dain fell completely silent when she focused. Usually, she was a non-stop chatterbox, but in front of a canvas, she was quiet. Only the scratching sound of the stylus echoed in the studio. Occasionally, Dain checked my monitor to match the tones. Every time she did, she leaned in. Our shoulders brushed. Our arms grazed.
At five-thirty, Dain stretched her arms wide.
"Ugh, my neck hurts."
"Take a break."
"What about you, Oppa?"
"I have to keep going."
"Then I'll keep going too."
Dain picked up her tablet again. But this time, she shifted her posture. She pulled her chair closer to mine and placed her tablet on the desk instead of her lap. While that was certainly more comfortable—
Her upper body leaned toward me. It wasn't just our shoulders brushing anymore; her entire arm was pressed against mine. And then, I felt it. As her left arm pressed flush against my right, her breast brushed against my arm. Because of her oversized sweatshirt, I hadn't noticed before, but with us pressed together like this, her soft contour was transmitted directly through the thin fabric.
Dain seemed entirely unaware. She was hyper-focused on the screen, her consciousness entirely directed toward the hand moving the stylus. Leaning in was simply more comfortable for her; there was no hidden motive. I knew Dain was dense about these things. She was someone who lacked a sense of physical boundaries—someone for whom sticking close to the people she liked was second nature. It was completely unintentional and unguarded.
But the problem was that I wasn't dense. I was acutely aware of the soft sensation pressing against my arm. The fabric of her sweatshirt was thinner than I'd thought. Was she wearing a bra underneath, or—the moment that thought crossed my mind, I felt utterly pathetic. Dain had come here purely to help me. I tightened my grip on my stylus. Focus. The folds of the villain's cloak. I drew a line.
"Oppa."
"Yeah?"
"I think it would be cool if light leaked out of the castle windows. A cold, blue light, since it's where the villain is."
"Sounds good. Go ahead."
Dain moved her stylus. Every time her arm moved, her body shifted slightly. The point of contact pressed closer, then pulled back, repeating the cycle. Focus, Han Siu. Focus on the drawing.
By six o'clock, the background was eighty percent complete. Dain's assistance was far more seamless than I had anticipated. Her tone matching was precise, and she had an excellent eye for detail. Her claim of studying my art style hadn't been an empty boast.
"Dain."
"Yeah?"
"You're really good at this."
I spoke without stopping my stylus.
"The tone matching on the stone walls barely deviates from my own. The cracked lines on the window frames are clean. Most of all, the lighting doesn't clash with the character. Your background supports the character perfectly."
Dain stopped. She looked at me, her round eyes widening even further. Her hand holding the stylus froze.
"...Are you serious?"
"This is a file I'm sending to a client. I can't afford to give empty praise."
Dain closed her mouth. She paused, and then her cheeks flushed red. Her lips didn't move, but her cheeks burned. She seemed to be trying to hide her expression, but she was failing miserably.
"Hearing you say that... honestly, it feels a bit surreal."
"Why?"
"I was seventeen when I first saw your art, Oppa. It's been five years since then. For five years, I looked at only one person's art and went to art school because of it, and now that very person is telling me I draw well."
Her voice trembled slightly. Her eyes grew a little red. She wasn't about to cry, but she looked like someone whose heart was overflowing. Dain took a deep breath and gripped her stylus again.
"...Thank you."
Her expression composed itself. The atmosphere had grown a bit heavy. I needed to change the subject.
"Let's eat," I said, attempting to shift the mood.
"I'd love to!"
Dain's mood flipped in an instant. We moved from the studio to the kitchen.
"Should I make pasta?"
"Yes, please! Is it cream pasta?"
"Carbonara. Let's make it authentic. No cream."
I opened the refrigerator and pulled out a box that had arrived via early-morning delivery yesterday. I took out a vacuum-sealed, elongated block of meat. The label read Guanciale.
"Oppa, what's that? Bacon?"
"Guanciale."
"...Guanciale?"
"Cured pork jowl. It's an Italian cured meat and the traditional ingredient for carbonara. It's different from bacon or pancetta."
"Do they sell that at the market?"
"Not at regular markets. I ordered it through early-morning delivery. You have to go to a specialty butcher shop online to get it."
"Oh, interesting."
"Compared to bacon, the aroma is much deeper, and the saltiness is more robust. If you add garlic and cream, it overpowers this flavor, which is why authentic carbonara doesn't use either."
Dain listened intently, her eyes looking much like they did when she was analyzing art—she was in absorption mode, taking in something new. I put a pot of water on the stove. Once it boiled, I threw in a handful of coarse salt. Meanwhile, I placed the guanciale on the cutting board. I didn't dice it. I sliced it into thick, elongated strips—larderoni—about five millimeters thick and three centimeters long, ensuring the cross-section showing the alternating layers of fat and meat was clearly visible.
"Oppa, your knife skills are really good."
"How so?"
"It's so consistent. Every piece is the exact same thickness."
"It's just a habit."
"You don't get this good just from habit. Is it because your fingers are so long?"
Dain looked at my hand—the one holding the knife. Then, she spread her own hand and placed it next to mine. The difference in size was stark. My hand was easily two knuckles larger than hers.
"It's really big."
"Well, it's a man's hand."
The water boiled again, and I dropped the pasta in. I didn't grease the pan. Instead, I laid the strips of guanciale in a cold pan and slowly raised the heat from low. The fat gradually rendered, releasing its own oil. Once the meat turned a golden-brown color, I lowered the heat.
"Smell this."
Dain leaned her nose close to the pan.
"...Wow. It really is different from bacon. It's much richer."
"That's because it's cured for a long time."
Just before draining the pasta, I scooped out some of the pasta water into a small bowl—about two ladles. In another bowl, I separated two egg yolks. I grated Pecorino Romano cheese over them, mixed the cheese with the yolks, and ground a generous amount of black pepper into the mixture until it became a thick, dense paste. The sauce base was ready.
I transferred the pasta directly into the pan with the guanciale and turned off the heat. I poured in a spoonful of pasta water, tossing the pasta and guanciale to coat them. A light steam rose. That exact moment, with just a bit of residual heat remaining, was the key. I poured the egg and cheese mixture into the pan. Adding the remaining pasta water little by little, I tossed and stirred rapidly. The goal was to emulsify the pasta water, cheese, and egg yolks into a single, cohesive sauce before the yolks could cook. If you stopped stirring at this stage, the yolks would scramble. I kept moving, adding more pasta water if it seemed too dry, or tossing a bit longer if it was too runny, until a creamy glaze coated every strand of pasta. I cracked a bit more black pepper over it to finish.
"Done."
I plated it onto two dishes, and we sat across from each other at the dining table. Dain twirled her fork and took a bite.
"This is insane. Oppa, this is better than what they serve at restaurants."
"You're exaggerating."
"I'm serious! The egg yolk isn't cooked, but it doesn't taste raw at all. The sauce is clinging perfectly to the pasta. How did you do this?"
"You have to let the pan cool slightly, then mix it with the pasta water. The temperature needs to be just below the point where the yolk scrambles. If you stir constantly at that temperature, it emulsifies."
"Emulsifies."
"Oil and water don't mix, but the starch in the pasta water binds them together. The egg yolk gets incorporated into that process, coating the pasta like cream."
"You really sound like a teacher when you explain things, Oppa."
"I've just made it a lot."
Dain ate happily, and I dug in as well. The carbonara had turned out perfectly. The glossy, emulsified yolk coated the pasta beautifully, and the sharp saltiness of the Pecorino layered over the savory salt of the guanciale, creating a robust flavor profile.
After eating, we returned to the studio to tackle the remaining twenty percent of the background. Dain sat next to me again, leaning against me even more naturally than before.
"I'm sleepy."
"If you're tired, go downstairs and sleep."
"No way. I'm staying to finish this with you."
Dain rubbed her eyes and picked up her tablet. She began filling in the fine details of the background—moss growing between the stones, cracks in the window frames, and ivy climbing up the castle walls.
At eight o'clock, the background was finished. Dain handed over the final file, and I merged it with the character layers, organizing the file structure. The villain stood in front of the castle. The sword in his left hand, the alluring yet menacing eyes, and the gothic castle looming behind him—it was perfect.
"Dain."
"Yeah?"
"Thank you, seriously. If I had done this alone, I would have been up all night."
Dain smiled. Her eyes looked tired, but her expression was bright.
"I like this. Drawing together with you, Oppa."
Drawing together. Those words lingered strangely in my chest. For three years, I had drawn alone. I had thought being alone was comfortable. But after spending half a day drawing with Dain, I realized something. Looking at the same screen with someone, creating the same piece of art... so this was what it felt like.
"I liked it too," I said.
It wasn't a difficult thing to say, yet it had taken a moment to leave my mouth. Dain looked at me. Her round eyes, her hairpins, and a slow, spreading smile.
"Then let's do it together next time too. Promise!"
Dain held out her pinky. I smiled and hooked my pinky with hers.
"Promise."
Her finger was small and warm. Today, her hands were clean, having only held a stylus. Usually, she had traces of paint under her fingernails, but today they were spotless, as if she had made up her mind to be perfectly prepared to help with my deadline. Dain stood up and stretched. As her sweatshirt rode up, her waistline was briefly exposed—pale skin and a slender waist. I averted my eyes to avoid staring.
"I'll head down now. Good luck finishing up, Oppa!"
"Yeah. Get down safely."
Dain slipped into her slippers at the entryway and left. The door clicked shut, and silence descended once more.
I sat alone in the studio. I looked at the spot where Dain had been sitting. The chair was still pulled up right next to my desk. Though there was no physical trace of her left behind, the faint scent of oil paint mixed with fruity shampoo still lingered in the air. The sensation on my arm remained, too—the soft touch that had filtered through her oversized sweatshirt. I shook my head. I organized the final files: checking the resolution, merging the layers, and converting the formats. I just had to send them before midnight. I had two hours left. I pulled up the villain illustration with Dain's background on the full screen. It was good. Really good. This level of quality wouldn't have been possible if I had worked alone. Drawing together. Dain's words echoed in my mind again. I turned off the monitor and stepped out of the studio, trying to ignore the lingering sensation on my arm.
It was 9:00 PM. Once I submitted the deadline files before midnight, I would be able to rest for a while. What should I do during my break? Maybe buy some meat and have a barbecue? The villa's rooftop was empty, after all. Lost in these thoughts, I stepped into the shower. Hot water cascaded down my back, easing the stiffness in my neck. When I closed my eyes, scenes from today flashed before me: Dain's serious eyes, her sharp critique—"How about adding another light source to the iris?"—and her face, just ten centimeters away from mine. Her round eyes, her long eyelashes. Her finger hooked around my pinky.
"...Damn it," I muttered to myself under the showerhead.
This was trouble. Dain was twenty-two—five years younger than me. She was my fan. She called me Oppa. She stayed by my side purely because she loved art. Letting other feelings creep into that was my problem, not hers. I turned off the water and dried my hair with a towel. I looked at my reflection in the mirror: tired eyes, short black hair, and skin roughened by the deadline. It was true that this face was advantageous for hiding emotions, given that my default expression was completely blank.
I lay down on my bed. Once I sent the files, I'd have to go grocery shopping first to restock the fridge, which had been empty for days. Meat. Vegetables. Beer. A barbecue on the rooftop. With whom? With everyone. It was strange how naturally that thought came to me. A month ago, the answer would have been "alone." I closed my eyes. I felt like I would sleep well tonight.