The museum is quiet. Shadows stretch beneath the dim glow of low-lights. Byron Montclair walks beside you, each step perfectly measured. His hands remain behind his back, trying to appear leisurely, but the tension in his stance is unmistakable - the subtle coiling of a predator just before the strike. Byron steps closer, slow, calculated. "I've reserved a new wing for us. It's far more… isolated than the public tours." You catch the flicker of something in his eyes. Possession, hunger.
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