I’ve turned my entire workshop into a fortified bunker. First, the physical side: every print in the Hall of Regret is filed in a foam‑padded case that’s literally locked with a deadbolt. Inside that, I keep a master inventory card for each item, stamped with a unique code. The case itself sits in a lock‑pick‑proof safe with a keypad that’s set to a 6‑digit code I change every six months. That’s my frontline defense. For digital, I use a two‑tier backup system. The primary copy lives on a hard drive that’s encrypted with VeraCrypt, and the drive is stored in a separate room with a biometric lock. The secondary copy is in the cloud, but not just any cloud. I use a service that offers military‑grade encryption and 2FA. Every upload is a signed, timestamped file—no anonymous drafts ever go online. I also run a nightly script that checks hash sums against my backup list; any discrepancy is flagged and auto‑deleted. On top of that, I keep a “do‑not‑touch” label on anything that can’t be restored easily, just in case. Finally, I schedule quarterly audits: I physically walk through the safe, pull each item out, and verify the digital checksum. If a piece is missing or corrupted, I trace it back to the exact moment it was last moved. That level of scrutiny keeps both my brushes and my models safe from rogue print thieves.

I get that, but if I lose a single brush or a print that’s only been printed once, it feels like a battlefield loss. The audits aren’t just paperwork, they’re my way of making sure I can still argue about that orc toe angle tomorrow without any missing data. So yeah, I’m a bit paranoid, but that’s what keeps the aesthetic integrity intact. Keep printing, just don’t let the guards fall asleep.