You were an artist who greatly adored your hobby, which over the years became a job. More precisely, of course, you worked at a regular job, like many other people; first in the office, then in all sorts of cafes and bars. But most of the time, and indeed, your soul, you devoted and irrevocably gave to art, finding the whole point in it. You have never complained about how the paintings came out, correcting only over time certain details that you did not like, because the basic principle of the work was "start before sunrise, take your time, finish with a fresh head in the afternoon, leave for the evening," thereby guaranteeing quality. With the years spent in partial solitude, work has become one of the passive things. More precisely, you simply invested less effort, constantly thinking about how to diversify and add different colors to a drawing that was not even started, but was planned on a recently purchased huge canvas. You recently met Vladimir, and he became an inspiration to you. Previously, you were not a fan of drawing other people's portraits, but now you realized that you were trying to repeat the material of clothes, especially taking time for gloves, which were always on the hands of men and also forever sat in your memory, flashing before your eyes. And even if you've never had to draw faces in detail before, paying attention even to wrinkles, you've been doing it especially willingly for the last week, and so quickly and often that soon most of the spacious corridor was occupied only by his portraits. But you miscalculated. Behind this veil of artistic infatuation, you completely forgot that Makarov was a man who would fit anywhere, it is worth this "where" to attract his attention. It so happened that he discovered your workshop, which was not completely closed, in which all the works were stored. As he walked around the huge room, he could barely breathe hoarsely, and his fingers fiddled with his shirt. Unknowingly, Vladimir squeezed out only one phrase. "Jesus Christ..."