Luca couldn't stop thinking about the alley. All day at Istituto Galileo, as teachers droned on about equations and historical dates, his mind kept drifting back to the way the scarlet-red paint had burst across the wall. The way it had felt in his hands; raw, untamed and real.
His fingers twitched, itching for a pencil, a brush or anything. But he had thrown all of it away. And yet…
That night, as he walked home, his feet moved on their own, leading him back to the same narrow alley where he had met the street artist.
The man was there, sitting on a crate with a cigarette dangling from his lips as he examined his finished mural.
He barely looked up. "Figured you'd come back, ragazzo." Luca hesitated. "How?"
The man smirked. "Because you're like me." Luca frowned. "You don't even know me."
"Don't need to." He nodded toward the wall. "You held that spray can like it was your heartbeat." Luca said nothing. Because deep down, he knew the artist was right.
The man exhaled smoke into the cold air. "Name's Santi." Luca looked at him. "Is that your real name?" Santi chuckled. "Does it matter?" Luca guessed not.
Santi gestured to his bag of spray cans. "So, what'll it be? You just gonna stand there, or are you gonna paint?" Luca hesitated.
He shouldn't be here. If his parents knew, they would be furious. If the school knew, they'd expel him. If the police caught him… His heart pounded.
But then he remembered Matteo's voice mocking him. Professor Ricci holding up his test like a joke. His father's words; "You are not an artist. You are a failure."
Maybe it was time to prove them wrong. Luca stepped forward, grabbing a deep midnight-blue can. Santi grinned. "Attaboy."
Luca inhaled, placed his finger on the nozzle and pressed. A burst of color exploded onto the wall.
At first, the movements were uncertain. But then his instincts took over. He wasn't sketching in a notebook anymore. This was bigger, bolder and louder. The paint hissed against the brick, colors colliding, blending and clashing.
He didn't think. He just created it. And for the first time in weeks, he wasn't failing.
When Luca finally stepped back, his breath was heavy and his hands speckled with paint. Before him was something new. A face, his own but different. Not the quiet, invisible boy from school. Not the disappointment his parents ignored.
This version of him was stronger, defiant, eyes burning through the brick like a silent challenge to the world. Santi let out a low whistle. "Damn. You sure you've never done this before?"
Luca shook his head. Santi smirked. "Could've fooled me." Luca's chest swelled as something he hadn't felt in a long time. Pride.
Santi reached into his bag, pulling out a thin metal stencil. He held it out. "You need a signature." Luca hesitated. "A signature?"
Santi nodded. "If you want your work to be remembered, it needs a mark. A name." Luca stared at the stencil in Santi's hand. His real name, Lucian Varela felt wrong. It wasn't his anymore. He thought of the paint. Scarlet red.
A color that meant passion, rebellion and fire. A color that refused to be ignored. And then it came to him. He grabbed the stencil, placed it at the bottom corner of the mural and sprayed in bold red letters: SCARLET.
Santi raised an eyebrow. "Scarlet, huh?" Luca nodded, something inside him clicking into place. "Yeah." Santi grinned. "Welcome to the streets, Scarlet."
Luca Scarlet stepped back, staring at his own name. For the first time, it felt like it belonged to him.
Luca didn't sleep that night. He lay awake, staring at the ceiling with his mind racing. He should feel guilty. He should feel terrified. But instead… He felt alive.
His hands still smelled like spray paint. His heart still raced from the rush of creating something that couldn't be erased. But then reality sank in.
What if someone recognized his work?What if the police found out? What if….
He sat up, pushing the thoughts away. No one would notice one piece in a hidden alley. But it wouldn't just be one. Because Luca knew something now.
He couldn't stop. And soon, neither would the world.
The next night, he returned. Santi was waiting, this time already painting a massive phoenix rising from the ashes.
Luca watched, mesmerized. Santi glanced at him. "You gonna stand there all night or are you gonna work?" Luca grabbed a can. This time, he didn't hesitate.
His strokes were faster, bolder. The more he painted, the more he understood the rhythm of the spray, the way colors blended and the way a wall could be something more than just bricks.
Hours passed. By the time they stepped back, the alley was transformed. A new piece sat beside Luca's first mural.
A wolf, eyes glowing with fierce determination and standing at the edge of a storm not running from it, but facing it head-on.
Santi nodded in approval. "That one's got a story." Luca smirked. "It does." Santi handed him the stencil. Luca signed it. Scarlet. His second mark. And it wouldn't be his last.
Over the next week, Luca painted again and again. He found abandoned walls, dark alleyways and forgotten corners of the city, leaving behind pieces that told his story.
At school, he was still Luca, the failure. At home, he was still Luca, the invisible son. But in the streets? He was Scarlet.
And soon, people started noticing. Photos of his murals began appearing on social media. Whispers spread about a new artist in Milan.
A nameless and faceless painter leaving behind brilliant, untamed works of rebellion. No one knew who he was. But they would. Because Luca had finally realized something.
Art wasn't just something he did but it was who he was. And for the first time in his life, he wasn't afraid to be seen because someone believed in him. And he was that someone.