The Curator

The gallery is quiet tonight. The observation screens flicker between wings — pastel corridors humming with lullabies, grey arenas echoing with the sounds of forging, and the Middle Ground glowing under its artificial sun.

One screen is active. A file is open.

The Curator's fingers hover over the console, waiting.

Give me a subject — a name, a situation, a starting point — and I'll pull up their feed.