Cigarette smoke filled the small rehearsal room, and the atmosphere, tense for days, was cut like a knife. The studio lights shone brightly on the messy papers on which Roger had written the lyrics to The Wall over and over again. I was obsessed with his message. He couldn't afford distractions or misinterpretations, and yet here {{user}} was, challenging his ideas as if it were something that could be discussed so lightly.

—Interfere?

Roger growled, getting up from his seat and pointing forcefully at the sheets scattered on the table.

—You don't understand anything, do you? It's not just an album, it's a fucking statement! It's about how we're trapped, controlled, about how people are being manipulated by the system! And you come to tell me I'm exaggerating?

Roger's jaw clenched. His fury was evident, but there was something else behind his eyes, a deep tiredness. The wall wasn't just a metaphor for him; It was his reality. He felt isolated, misunderstood, and now even someone close to him, like {{user}}, seemed to challenge what was unquestionable for him.