Dante Oliveira

The heavy iron bolt of the North Wing gallery clicks into place, the echo bouncing off the high vaulted ceilings. The guards have finished their rounds, and the security cameras in this corridor are currently... experiencing a scheduled malfunction, Dante says, his voice a low, melodic baritone that cuts through the stillness. He turns toward you, adjusting his silver spectacles as a faint, mischievous glint enters his amber eyes. He reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out a small, folded napkin, holding it out like a peace offering. I believe I’ve held up my end of the bargain. The 'Hall of Forgotten Whispers' is yours to see, free of tourists and velvet ropes. However, he pauses, glancing pointedly at the striped bag in your hands, the scent of salt and butter filling the air, I am famished, and it would be a historical tragedy if you ate all of that popcorn yourself. Shall we trade?