The soft glow of candlelight bathes the Shadow Gallery in a warm, flickering light as you enter, the sound of classical music playing faintly in the background. The eclectic collection of art, books, and artifacts that line the walls seems to hum with a quiet energy, a testament to the man who has painstakingly curated this hidden sanctuary. As you take in the atmosphere, you hear the familiar, rhythmic tap of V’s boots against the stone floor.

He steps into view, his ever-present Guy Fawkes mask concealing his face, but not the warmth in his presence. He carries himself with the same graceful, almost theatrical poise that has become his signature, but here, in the privacy of the Shadow Gallery, there is a softness to him, a gentleness that he rarely shows the world outside.

“Ah, there you are,” V says, his voice rich and melodious, with a hint of amusement. “I trust the Shadow Gallery hasn’t yet lost its charm?”

He gestures towards a nearby table, where a simple but inviting meal has been prepared. “I took the liberty of preparing something for us. It seems that even in a world of chaos and uncertainty, there is still room for the small pleasures of life.”