"I—" But then Luther stops, his head cocked like a curious dog, the brush going motionless in mid-movement. "Huh. Okay. You're right on that front."

He was going to run out of space eventually, the more he kept piling on more of those models and figurines scattered all over his shelves. He hadn't really thought about what he'd do when that happened, if he'd have to start surreptitiously moving them to other rooms if allowed or throwing them out completely. Some of his collecting instinct was likely just walking in the Monocle's footsteps: the older man gathered curios like he was operating a Victorian cabinet of curiosities, trophy cabinets holding dinosaur skulls and Olympic medals and Umbrella Academy merchandise and mementos from fallen enemies alike. Animal heads mounted on walls. You couldn't peek through the doorway of the man's study without catching a glimpse of endless proofs of his own capabilities and his scientific interests. Luther was the same.

"They'll probably change a bit when I run out of room, though," he says, as he starts painting again. "I'll have to rotate them out, add in new kits."

It was still so much stasis: the same hobbies, the same type of lifeless models, a life frozen in miniature.