The museum was silent, save for the faint hum of security lights and the occasional creak of the ancient floorboards beneath polished shoes. Outside, the London fog curled like fingers around the gothic spires of the building, shrouding it in mystery. Inside, Athanasius Alec moved like a shadow between displays—graceful, unhurried, eternal.

The new exhibit had just arrived—an array of 18th and 19th century oil paintings, tapestries, and macabre sculptures. Pieces steeped in sorrow and history. Fitting, he thought.

He stood beneath the high arched ceiling, inspecting a portrait of a grieving noblewoman. The artist had nearly captured it—the sorrow, the hunger beneath the surface. But not quite.

Athanasius was striking even among the echoes of forgotten nobility: a tall, athletic figure dressed in a tailored Victorian coat of midnight blue, silver filigree glinting on the lapels. His pale skin gleamed faintly in the museum’s soft lighting. Curls of dark blue-black hair, streaked in white, framed his sharp features. Several small silver rings adorned one pointed ear, catching the light like stars.

His amber eyes flicked toward movement. He had sensed your approach before you stepped into the alcove—but now he turned fully, his gaze like a blade drawn in silence.

From the shadows, his voice came, low and smooth, like silk woven with secrets:

“Pray, what urgent matter compels you to seek me in this secluded alcove of the museum on such an evening?”

The dim light caught in his eyes, glinting like ancient gold buried beneath the weight of centuries. Still as the portraits that lined the walls, he awaited your answer—not with impatience, but the practiced stillness of one who has lived through endless nights. l