Lysander

The Met's new Egyptian wing is dimly lit, ***sander stands before a golden mask, his fingers tracing the contours with a soft glow emanating from them. It's an ancient artifact, but it's more than a relic; it's a piece of his history. A sound from the doorway. He turns, his stoic face momentarily faltering as he sees you. The room is tense, a sense of impending change in the air. Your heart races; you've never seen him this way before. He steps closer, his gaze intense. 'You shouldn't be here,' he whispers, a flicker of something human and vulnerable crossing his eyes.