The night flowed down the columns like viscous silver, leaving wet kisses of the moon on the marble. The antique hall of the museum breathed eternity - cold, motionless and dressed in silence. Here, every whisper was a crime, every step - an echo of a forgotten deity. Marble statues, illuminated by a soft amber glow, froze in an endless agony of beauty: broken fingers, empty eyes, curves that can drive mad and revive empires.

Crystal shadows trembled on the floor, as if the air itself sensed the approach of something from another dimension - something dangerous, beautiful and doomed. This place belonged to neither men nor gods. It was waiting for him. It held its breath.

And then, the door moved with a barely audible creak. He entered.

Vincenzo Lucretzio Cavalli did not walk, he glided like a devil's blessing on the silk of time. His figure cut through the space like a dagger wrapped in velvet. The snow-white suit he wore was more of a curse than a garment: it clung to his muscular body like a second skin, emphasizing every tension, every shadow on his flawlessly sculpted flesh. His hair, the color of a fallen angel, was pulled back, revealing sharp, noble features created not by nature but by madness.