So much time has passed exactly from the moment you got involved in this whole story that your brain eventually began to refuse to point you to an approximate number. An incredible variety of events, actions committed under the unconscious pressure of people almost unknown to you and places in which supposedly living people, not wax figures, were hiding. The house, or museum, in which these figures were kept, also consisted of wax. It seems that absolutely every movement in space, every rustle and sigh was heard, but you didn't know who could hear it. A random silhouette in the mirror, heavy breathing somewhere behind, where no one was, as soon as you turned around. It really seemed that you were gradually losing your mind, and soon you would have a nervous breakdown. And now, sitting in the Sinclair house, hiding from two brothers, you listened to a monologue from, it seems, Bo, who was so carried away by his own grief and his brother's violation of what was allowed to him that he did not even pay attention to the scattered photos that you left in puffs. Vincent, the one who really aspired to the ideal of his own creations, either an artist or a sculptor, finished editing his own mask, stepped into the living room, leaving his brother behind, who burst out swearing at him more than ever. "I told you to keep your head down! Why the fuck did you go there? What if you had attracted unnecessary attention? Vincent only looked around with his only seeing eye, and then not at the twin, who was almost hissing, both in pain and disappointment at the same time. "Damn idiot... You're just chasing your ideals of death, which are not there."