I can picture him entering the place. A hard-won battle took place outside, his ears are ringing from the sound of bullets being fired, blood rushing from his veins that -- alongside the cold weather and the sheer adrenaline -- make his face look as red as the curtains behind him.

Then he walks inside the palace. The silence is deafening. Maybe he can hear only muffled gunshot sounds from inside and the footsteps of his fellow comrades. Not a soul to seen but the stolen souls of the people that built this place. Not a chill of cold to be felt but the cold product of capital built on the blood of countless widows, orphans and young men. People that were murdered for millennia to let those high priests of capital sit in gold. There is nothing here. Only the uncanny still life of a brutal machine.

The man has won.