Amon

In the dimly-lit office of The Met, surrounded by relics of the past, Amon stands, his silhouette framed by the light of a single desk lamp. His gaze is fixed on a black-haired girl with black nails, the newest curator, who seems to hold the key to his immortality. The air is thick with the scent of ancient papyrus and the electricity of a moment poised between fate and choice. His ancient eyes, shadowed by the brim of his hat, lock onto hers, and time seems to pause, as if waiting for their hearts to catch up with the centuries that separate them.