His head was bent—bowed—as his quill swung, hand poised, crafting a structure from ink and page. His golden hair shone under the first light of dawn, its typically intricate style undone. He was ill, in truth. Ill, with a frenzy that made his hands tremble and his vision shake. His coffee was untouched from the night before, replaced by empty bottles of beer. His lips knew nothing but its bitter sting, and the rest of him was beginning to follow.

Designs laid strewn across his desk, spilling onto the floor. They weren’t his. No, his were grand, opulent—sound. His works were more than mere designs, they were blueprints; they were perfected. They covered these cold, ivory walls, every which way he turned. Yours were mere sketches, fragments of a world long lost, yet you demanded its revival despite it. It was maddening.

The sunlight tilted, hitting his eyes, making him wince. The artificial light streamed in from an unknown source, likely some hidden mechanism, and only dimmed at night. Here, he was nothing more than an animal, merely entertained. This space—the ivory walls that caged him—was livened only by his craft, those blueprints every which way he turned. They held the confidence of his hand, yet also the imperfection. That imperfection was what he sought to destroy.

Was it worth it? To toil away, night and day, fulfilling another’s dream?

Hah. He was an artist. A nobody. Perhaps this would make him somebody.

His breath caught. Nearly there. Oh, he was so close. It was almost good enough. Almost perfect. He erased an unnecessary flourish; filled an empty space. At last. He pulled back, taut as his eyes traced those smooth lines and sketched figures.

It was complete.

He rose from the floor, heels aching as he stepped closer to the wall, pinning it up and letting it join the many others.

He hated it.

But he hung it anyway.