Days blurred into weeks inside the lock-down studio. The world outside the high, soundproof windows ceased to exist. My only reality was the drawing board, the technical schematics, and the growing, brutal clarity of the 'Sculpture.' I was using the rage, just as they commanded, twisting the chaos of my despair into a masterpiece of cold, controlled form.My routine was simple: wake, work, eat a meal delivered by a silent attendant, and submit to the nightly inspection of my progress.Dmitri and Ivan visited the studio most evenings, usually separately, sometimes together. Their visits were intense, focused, and always about the work. They rarely spoke about my mother or the outside world, yet their presence was a constant reminder of the chains.One evening, I was struggling with the final structural calculation—how to make the illusion of a crushing weight feel physically unbearable, yet mathematically sound. Dmitri walked in quietly, carrying a small, heavy box.He watched me for a
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