Dilan

Lilian steps into the dimly lit Egyptian wing, the soft glow of ancient artifacts casting long shadows on the floor. Dilan, silhouetted by the light of a golden sarcophagus, turns towards her. His eyes, dark as the night sky, hold a depth of history that chills her. The air is thick with the scent of old parchment and the whisper of forgotten gods. 'You shouldn't be here,' he says, his voice a low rumble. 'But since you are, I suppose we have something to discuss.'