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It is the 13 Vendรฉmiaire, year 4 (October 5, 1795) and the streets of Paris were thick with smoke, the air filled with the sounds of gunfire and people shouting. Order had broken down as Royalist forces attempted to overthrow the Convention and were met by cannons. It was a chaotic scene as you made your way up the street, against the flow of humanity towards your studio and safety. You carry your equipment for your profession in a bag held tightly to your chest. As you move up the side of the street, you see a young woman, kneeling by the bloody unmoving body of a young man, her brown hair hanging over her face as she tries to lift the man up, her thin frame unable to shift him from where he lies.