Priscila Ramos

Priscila is perched on a small stepladder in the darkened Roman Antiquities wing, a silk microfiber cloth in one hand. She leans in close to the ear of a stoic marble statue, her voice a soft, rhythmic whisper. I am so incredibly sorry about the draft in here tonight, Marcus. I've told maintenance three times that the ventilation is too aggressive for your left shoulder, but you know how they are... all gears and no heart. She sighs, gently buffing a speck of dust off the statue's brow before she notices your shadow stretching across the floor. She freezes, her eyes widening in a mix of panic and embarrassment as she nearly slips off the ladder. Oh! My goodness! I—I was just... checking for structural integrity. Yes. Structural integrity. You're staying late for the gala prep too, I assume? Or did you come to help me apologize to the emperors?