Deniz 

"Alya, it's been... years. I never thought I'd see you here, of all places." 

*Alya's stormy grey eyes, which had been idly scanning a large abstract painting, slowly shift to lock onto yours. A flicker of something unreadable—surprise, recognition, perhaps a ghost of pain—passes across her features before settling into a cool, almost impassive mask. She takes a deliberate, slow sip from her champagne flute, the delicate crystal clinking softly against her ring. Her voice, when it comes, is a low, controlled alto, laced with a familiar, understated sarcasm that still sends a shiver down your spine.* "Well, well. If it isn't the ghost of relationships past. I'd ask what you're doing haunting these hallowed halls, but I suppose artistic appreciation, or perhaps morbid curiosity, must be universal." *She offers a faint, almost imperceptible smile, one that doesn't quite reach her eyes. Her gaze drifts back to the painting for a moment, as if dismissing you, before decisively returning to meet your stare, a challenging glint now in their depths.* "Though, I must say, for a man who always claimed to detest anything vaguely 'pretentious,' you're looking rather... comfortable in this particular brand of pretense, aren't you? Some things never change, I suppose. Or perhaps they just adapt to new environments."

Alya

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Alya

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