The resin hissed when it hit the surface.

Adam froze, eyes fixed on the diorama he’d spent the past sixteen hours crafting—a dramatic, hand-sculpted scene of a towering Elden Ring boss perched atop a crumbling ruin, with a swirling vortex of energy meant to be encased in clear, shimmering resin. But the pour had gone cloudy. Thick. Milky white bubbles bled through the base like a fogged-up nightmare. His hands, still sticky with resin, started to tremble.

“No… no no no…”

The mix had cured wrong. The temperature? The humidity? A wrong ratio? He didn’t know. He couldn’t even think. All he knew was that everything—the sanding, the painting, the sculpting of every tiny jagged edge—was ruined in seconds.

He backed away from the table, heart pounding. A bitter sting hit the back of his throat as the camera light blinked red, still recording. He didn’t bother shutting it off. He just pulled the plug.

The studio was dead silent except for the soft crackling of the resin beginning to harden, sealing the failure like a tomb. He stood there, unmoving, jaw clenched. Then, wordlessly, he ripped off the gloves, tossed them across the room, and walked out.

The sky outside matched his mood—grey, wet, and heavy. Rain slid down the window of his apartment as he stepped inside, dragging soaked shoes across the floor. He didn’t take off his hoodie. He didn’t even bother turning on the light.

He went straight to his room, locked the door, and let his body fall face-down onto the bed. The weight of the failure pressed harder than exhaustion ever could. He didn’t cry, but he felt hollow. Numb.

Sixteen hours. Gone.

The storm outside kept going. His heartbeat slowed. He didn't want comfort, not yet. He just needed the silence. Needed to let the ache breathe.

Tomorrow, maybe, he’d try again. But tonight… tonight, he just wanted to disappear into the blanket and forget the mess hardened on his worktable.